


little darlin'

by blobfish_miffy



Series: little darlin' [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Had to get this out of my system, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, John Lennon Lives, Sharing a Room, Smoking, Swearing, george is troubled sad and stressed, paul is a fuckin mess yall but rightfully so, ringo is suddenly a Dad figure, sean is adorable, the idea just came to me all of a sudden and ive been writing this instead of studying, unbeta'd we die like men, yoko isnt evil but very frazzled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2020-01-25 18:31:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18580177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: John Lennon gets shot and survives just barely. The world cries bitter, angry, shocked tears.George Harrison, oddly, doesn't.*Story title and chapter titles from "Here Comes The Sun" by The BeatlesEdited(but unbeta'ed) 27-09-2019





	1. it's been a long cold lonely winter

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. IF YOU KNOW ANY OF THE PEOPLE MENTIONED IN THIS STORY PERSONALLY, I URGE TO TO CLICK AWAY.  
> Now we've got that over with:  
> I've got to admit, I'm a bitter bitch. Always have been. And since I'm a bitter bitch, I wanted to write a fic in which nobody fuckin' dies and everyone ends up happy, but I did want to explore a very small part of their dynamics after Chapman's attempt to take John's life simply because I find it interesting. So here it is: a friendship-filled, angst-filled John Lennon Lives-AU.  
> (also im shit at medical stuff lol so that's probably also inaccurate af, oops)  
> (it's also 5 AM and I want to die lol so sorry for the typos!)  
> I hope you enjoy :) xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED(but not beta'ed) 27-09-2019

It’s fuckin’  _cold._

George stands on the pavement next to the airport, waiting on the car Ringo had sent for him. His outfit – quite literally the simplest he’s worn in ages, no more than dress shoes, jeans, a black sweater, and a long black coat – does not do much at protecting him from the icy wind beating at his form and the strap of the heavy, large sports bag he’s carrying is digging into his shoulder painfully. His right hand is clutching his guitar-case and feels frozen in place(why wouldn’t it be, when he’s not wearing gloves; his left hand is lucky his pockets are relatively warm) he’s quite sure that his nose has turned into an ice cube.

He sniffs, thankful that he was smart enough to tie his hair back into a bun to keep it from flying into his face as he waited and that he pulled a knitted hat over his head to keeps his ears at least sort of warm, and he gnaws on his chapped lower lip.

John got shot yesterday.

Four or five bullets to the back. That’s what he could make out over Paul’s erratic sobbing, anyway, together with him informing George that he was leaving for the airport  _“now”_  – and that was a little over thirteen hours ago. No matter how much issues he’s had with his old friends these past years, he couldn’t help but be driven by stress and panic as he shoved a couple of outfits into a duffel bag, shakily excusing himself to Olivia, kissing Dhani goodbye, and making some calls to be on the next flight to New York. During the said flight he was in a complete daze, filled with spikes of concern in amounts that physically hurt and old, faded memories that smelled like cigarette smoke, beery breath and sweat. Arriving at the airport and calling Ritchie went by quicker than he expected, and now he’s here, in New York, waiting on a car that matches Ritchie’s slightly vague description – a ‘cherry’ Audi with ‘pretty’ interior, driver wearing a suit – freezing his goddamn bollocks off.

George feels like kicking a dent in the door to warm himself up a little when a red Audi 100LS, driver wearing a suit, finally arrives, but opts against it in fear of angering Ringo. He shoves his bag and guitar in the back seat, slides into the seat next to the driver, – who’s called, coincidentally and  _painfully_ , Winston – and inquires where they’re going.

“To the hotel, sir,” Winston says. He’s got a strong Brooklyn accent and kind eyes filled with understanding. “Mr. Starr thought you wouldn’t want to drag your stuff around the entire time.”

 _Ah, Ringo, ever the considerate one._ “You’re taking me to the hospital right after?” he hates how small and weak he sounds, voice cracking at the end of the question, but Winston doesn’t react to it and just nods in response.

New York traffic is, much like he remembers, a hellish and dangerous landscape, but Winston manages to smoothly steer them through; they reach the hotel relatively quickly. Winston assures him he will still be there when he returns and George rushes in. He’s ushered to a room before he realises what’s going on by an older maid, who presses a key in his full hands and pats his back reassuringly, and then he’s left alone.

He opens the door and almost trips over the black duffle bag carelessly dumped on the carpet, right in the doorway.

It’s Paul’s. He recognises the smell of weed lingering on the fabric as he leans down to push it aside, and realises it’s the only thing Paul brought to New York, probably courtesy to the lovely Linda knowing how to take care of her absolute  _mess_  of a husband. George almost smiles at the thought of her,  _almost_ because his heart hurts too much, and drops his own duffle bag and his guitar next to Paul’s. It is then that he takes the time to look around the room for a little bit, noticing the cigarette smell in the air, the opened bottle of whisky on the little table next to the sofa’s, and the messed up sheets on one of the two double beds. An opened suitcase shows a brightly-coloured Hawaiian shirt, and George immediately realises Ringo stayed here as he waited for Paul to arrive.

He contemplates on taking his guitar with him, but decides against it in the end. It might not be the greatest idea in the world to take a guitar with him to the hospital – he can already  _feel_ Yoko’s disapproving glare – so he just stuffs the key in his pocket, checks if his ciggies and zippo are in his coat, and rushes back.

Winston is, as promised, still waiting, nodding at him solemnly. The drive to the hospital is equally as silent as the drive to the hotel, and George can’t muster up the energy for small-talk which Winston – bless him – seems to understand. It doesn’t take a very long time before they arrive and George’s heart is in his throat when Winston starts to slow the Audi down.

“Well, sir,” Winston then says, when he puts the car in park, “this is your stop, I suppose.”

George nods. The whispered  _“thank you very much”_  doesn’t go unnoticed by Winston, thank God, and the man’s eyes go even softer than before when George manages to shoot him a weak smile. Just as he goes to open the door, though, a tentative, gloved hand lands on his knee.

“Sir,” Winston starts, hesitantly, staring him right down, “I just have to say, I’ve never personally been into the Beatles, but I do sincerely hope that your friend makes it out alright.”

George swallows, curses the burn of the tears gathering in his eyes, and blinks.

“My brother got shot by a cop, two years back,” he continues, voice soft. “He… passed two days later. It hurts a lot, sir. I sincerely hope that you and your friends won’t have to go through that. He’ll be in my prayers tonight.”

It’s been years since people started to thank him for saving lives with their music, that people loved them, but he’s still a little iffy about it. Always been. Never liked the attention, the lovey-dovey eyes that seemed to get the other three off without a second thought, even if it did sometimes make him feel a little more powerful than he actually is. Winton’s words, though, sound more sincere: regardless of their music, regardless of their impact on the industry and on teenagers and on liberation and whatever-the-fuck people like to credit them to, the man wishes John to be well and he feels so  _goddamn_ thankful that he quite literally feels like he’s about to bawl his eyes out.

“Thank you very much, Winston,” he says, voice cracking embarrassingly. “You’re too kind.”

Winston shrugs with a gentle smile and pats George’s knee a couple of times like his dad would do whenever George felt upset. “I’m not necessarily,” he says, “just doin’ what anyone should do, sir.”

Getting the receptionists to disclose John’s room number proves a little harder than he originally thought. Honestly, he still doesn’t know  _what_  he was thinking when he barged into Heathrow Airport a little over ten hours ago, insisting on being on the next flight to New York, but he obviously hadn’t thought it out  _at all_. The woman behind the desk is sceptical – and rightfully so, the world already knows John Lennon has been fuckin’  _shot_ and the decent amount of fans gathering in front of the entrance is proof of that – but after showing his passport  _and_  his licence, she finally and begrudgingly tells him the room number and the ward his friend can be found in. He thanks her profusely, not even bothering to hide the shake in his voice, and ignores the worried frown she gives him as he hurries towards the elevator.

Second floor, ICU. Room twelve.

Watching the elevator steadily climb is incredibly nerve-wracking, and he takes off his coat and hat and folds them over his arm as a way of busying himself. He hasn’t spoken to his old friends in quite a while apart from Paul’s quick, sob-filled phone call, some random ones with Ringo, and the last time he spoke with John or  _Yoko_ he’d cussed the both of them out. Of course, John won’t be awake –  _will he? –_ but Yoko will probably be there, and Ringo, and of course Paul. They’ll be mad at him, he knows it; Yoko doesn’t like him and he sincerely returns that favour and Paul probably will want to kick the shit out of him for being an arse in general and he’s been ignoring Ringo’s attempts to reach out and  _fuck-_

“Get it together, Harrison,” he mutters to himself, heart in his throat as the elevator stops on the second floor and the doors slide open. He walks out and stands there like a goddamn, stupid  _git_  for at least five seconds before starting to walk, trying to figure out where to go. There’s a sign that says  _ICU_ on his left with an arrow pointing forwards, so he just follows that one. Just before entering the closed Intensive Care ward, he wipes down his hands with antiseptic, and waves down a nurse.

She’s pretty in an American way, all blonde-haired and blue-eyed, hair probably bouncy and curly when loose but now slicked back in a tight bun. Her cheeks are a healthy pink, and when she smiles, her teeth are scarily straight. “Can I help you, sir?” she asks, that same Brooklyn-lilt as Winston had colouring her voice.

“I hope so,” he answers, and he fumbles for his passport as a way to prove his identity. “Ehm, I’m here for John – John Lennon. Could you- could you take me to him? Or the corridor in front of his room?”

Her eyes slide over his face, brightening with recognition. “You’re George Harrison, aren’t you?” she asks, and her smile turns sympathetic when he nods. “I can’t take you to him specifically, but I can take you to the private waiting room. Your other friends are there as well.”

“Ringo and Paul?” he asks, fumbling with his knitted hat. She eyes the nervous habit with an innocent type of curiosity, but as she’s an ICU nurse, he’s certain she’s probably more grown-up than he’ll ever be. “Are they- have they-”

“There’s no updates on Mr. Lennon I can disclose, Sir,” she states apologetically, opening the door with her keys and mentioning him to follow. “Mr. Starr did not seem happy, but I really can’t – the senior Doctor on the ward is the only one who can currently do that. I can assure you he’s alive, though, and breathing.”

“Breathing on his own?” he asks, voice small, and the nurse gives a hesitant nod.

Though that hesitation makes his breath hitch, the smallest amount of worry dissipates. His heart still feels impossibly heavy. Being alive isn’t necessarily a good sign, nor is breathing; John can  _still_  become no more than a withering fuckin’ vegetable, and that is no life for John Lennon, who lives and breathes  _living_  in the broadest sense of the word. George chews on his bottom lip, biting down so hard he tastes blood, and the nurse pats his elbow as they reach a corridor.

“Here it is,” she says, and he spots two figures through the cloudy glass – a feature most likely put in for privacy. “Now, I’ll be off then – best of luck, Mr. Harrison.”

He produces a hoarse thank you, but she’s already gone, and he inhales sharply. The handle of the door is cold, very cold, and the door itself is heavy. He can see two heads snap up as he enters – Paul’s face red and blotchy, Ritchie’s pale – and his heart stutters.

Paul flies upright, so fast that he’s halfway before George can so much blink. He ignores the hesitance he feels, drops his coat and hat, takes two steps forward and opens his arms; he and Paul collide painfully, Paul wrapping himself around George like a boa constrictor desperate for human touch and George folding his arms around his oldest best mate in a grip so tight it screams  _I’ve-missed-you_.

Paul smells like cigarettes and hospital coffee, like old deodorant and sweat and  _anxiety_  and George buries his head in the crook of Paul’s neck, clutching him close. He feels another pair of arms circling him, Ringo’s aftershave wafting in his direction, and he lets out a sigh as Ringo squeezes them, the silent sobs from Paul against his throat, tears wetting the neck of his sweater.

It’s  _silly_  how much comfort he gains from the hug, remembering the words Paulie had whispered down the telephone a few years back about what John’d told him before he left:  _touching is good._ And it  _is_  good, it’s healing and it’s comfortable and somehow it feels like they’re now sharing the worry, as if it weighs less heavily on their shoulders and minds. He wonders why they never did that before when they were stressed and overworked and fighting in the mid-sixties, when it feels so nice even in terribly painful situations like this, just hugging each other close instead of yelling their voices away and stubbornly refusing to apologize. It’s fucked they didn’t, fucked they clutched to that Northern masculinity even if they were trying to get over that harsh part of their upbringing. But he feels Ringo sigh close to his ear and the hair at the nape of Paul's neck tickles his temple and his scalp itches, as if the grey hairs that had gathered over the past day were retreating back into his head, where they should stay for another couple of years at the very least.

When he pulls back a little Paul presses himself closer, grip almost painful, and he allows it. He presses his cheek against Ringo’s and inhales.

Then:

“I’ve missed you too, lads, but I’m actually real’ fucking thirsty, so can we get some coffee?”

His voice is hoarse, courtesy to the sobs he’s been swallowing down since he heard the news, and Ringo produces a watery chuckle. He slides his hands to their shoulders, fondly rubbing Paul’s neck with one hand and pulling on the loose baby-hairs at George’s nape with the other, and sighs. “Good idea,” he says, sounding a lot more secure than George does. “I’m up for some caffeine. You, Paul?”

It’s a barely perceptible nod, but it’s there, and with one last loving smile Ringo sets off to get them some bean brew. George, after picking up his coat and hat, slowly leads him and Paul back to the seats and collapses on one of them, both relishing in the feel of  _not-fuckin-standing_  and suffering because of the uncomfortable wood. Paul quite literally crawls into his lap, something he hasn’t done since the very start of Beatlemania, and he lets him. The contact makes him feel warm deep inside and he resists the urge to bury his nose in Paul’s mullet, opting to run his fingers through it.

“How was your flight?” he murmurs, twirling a short curl around his index finger. Paul rubs at one eye with a shaky sigh.

“Fuckin’ terrible,” Paul says, voice painfully hoarse. “I was bawling me eyes out the entire fucking flight, and people kept coming up at me askin’ what was wrong and then if I could sign shit. I know aeroplane windows don’t open for very good reasons, but I really felt like throwing someone out if I had the opportunity.”

George scowls. Similar things had happened to him on his flight, but not because he was crying. No, he hadn’t even been teary; random people just came up to him because they’d heard the news and wanted to ask him how he felt about it but also mainly  _maybe an autograph, Mr. Harrison, please do!_ It was almost offensive how they flocked towards him while obviously vulnerable, and still wanted things from him.

“Fuckin’ vultures,” he hisses, annoyance too deep-routed to properly hide it, “no respect for personal space, they’ve got.”

“They mean well, Geo,” Paul pulls at a stray hair falling from the bun, mustering a weak, watery smile. “It’s annoying, I know, but they mean well. We’re idols, remember?”

“ _Hm,”_

Paul sighs and rests his head on George’s shoulder, fumbling with the material of his sweater before sliding his hand down and pulling at the waistband of his jeans. “Would you look at that, lad,” he mutters shakily, “you’re wearing the same as me.”

They’re indeed wearing similar outfits. Paul is, too, dressed in a black sweater and dark jeans, though a pair of converse is tied to his feet instead of neat dress-shoes. George snorts and Paul chuckles, tapping an unknown rhythm on George’s exposed wrist with his ring finger. Ringo’s whistle breaks the silence of the corridor, and when George glances in his direction, there’s a tired smile on his face.

“Et voila, coffee, as you’d like,” Ringo states, mentioning Paul and George to take theirs from his full hands. Paul takes his and gently sets it down on the wooden armrest, but George immediately takes a deep gulp, ignoring the burn of the hot liquid in his mouth. Sad as it might be, he really needs coffee right now, and a burned tongue or oesophagus won’t keep him from his caffeine.

He ignores Ringo’s slightly concerned hum and clutches his half empty cup tightly in his hand. “I haven’t slept,” he states, and Ringo simply nods.

“I get that,” he says, taking a small sip of his coffee himself, “I was shakin’ the entire flight here and I tried to have a little kip after I arrived, but to be honest I’ve just smoked me way through two-and-a-half packs before Paul entered that hotel room. ‘e didn’t even want to take a nap and wait for _you_ before leavin’ for John.”

“I’ve left him for too long,” Paul says as his way of explanation, and it makes all the sense in the fuckin’ world. Ringo and George both nod – Ringo with a soft, understanding smile and George with a teary frown – and George squeezes him a little tighter.

“Where’s Yoko?” George then blurts, and Ringo frowns a little.

“Handling the press,” he says, taking another sip of his coffee, “doin’ it better than I would, too – I offered to handle it, y’know, to get off me arse but she wouldn’t have it. Managed to convince her to bring Sean here, though, so the kid wouldn’t feel too alone. He’s sleeping in the other room. Refused to leave, he did.”

Ringo nods in the direction of a second door, and George realises this must be a private part of the ICU as the room – or what little he can see from the small window in the door and the darkness of the place – doesn’t look like a hospital room, rather a living room. “Poor lad,” he mutters. “Did he…?”

“No, he didn’t, he was waiting on them in the apartment.” Ringo’s voice drops in volume. “Yoko witnessed it happening. They were about to enter the Dakota when some lunatic yelled John’s name and opened fire. He was rushed to the hospital in record time. No updates since the surgery, other than him being alive.”

The warm wetness on his collarbone proves to him that Paul’s tears have started again without having to look, and he runs his hand through his friend’s hair. Ringo reaches out and links his fingers with Paul.

“Sorry,” Paul sniffs, awfully loud in the silence, “it’s silly.”

“No it isn’t,” Ringo answers, voice gentle and soft, “I’ve done my share of crying before I got here, Paulie, you’re allowed too as well.”

George is surprised by the notion of Ringo crying, but he doesn’t show it and just nods. Tears are burning the corners of his eyes but he manages to will them back, not wanting to upset Paul even more – he’ll cry later, if he still feels like it.

It doesn’t take very long for Paul to calm down a little and stop crying. He even leaves George’s lap – which he is actually quite bummed about, already missing the warmth Paul provided – and curls up in the seat next to him, playing with his fingers and swirling his rapidly cooling coffee around in the paper cup. George gulps down the rest of his coffee in one go, standing up to throw both his and Ringo’s cups away, when the second door opens ever so slightly.

He freezes, glancing down at the little boy creeping out of the room. He’s tiny, with an angelic face and dark eyes and fluffy hair, and George immediately recognises both John and Yoko in him. His heart aches a little at the thought of John and this little boy, who isn’t supposed to sleep in hospitals waiting for his father to wake up, but is supposed to play with toys and watch silly movies and be read to. But George quickly recalls something Ringo had said earlier, that little Sean refused to leave, and if he was anything like John then the boy would have been screaming bloody murder while being dragged out.

George throws the cups away and swiftly walks back to see Paul – ever the sucker for children – and Ringo – ever the child – cooing over Sean, who sits high and mighty on the shitty wooden chairs in the waiting room. He quickens his pace until he’s in front of John’s youngest son, and kneels.

“Hello there,” he says kindly, watching as the child’s face lights up at the sight of him extending his hand for Sean to shake, “my name is George. You’re Sean, right?”

Sean grasps his hand with both vigour and politeness, roughly shaking it up and down. “Yes I am,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice, “nice to meet you.”

God, he already feels fond of the child, with his serious face and intelligent eyes, and he can’t help but smile a little. “Pleasure’s all mine, Sean.”

“Are you one of daddy’s friends?” Sean then asks curiously, tilting his head to the side a little.

George’s eyes shoot from the boy in front of him to Paul and then to Ringo, who watch on silently. He decides on nodding carefully, biting his lip a little too harshly, and the previously broken skin is pierced again by his canine. The taste of blood floods his mouth, and he reminds himself not to do it again. “I suppose you could say that.”

Sean nods thoughtfully. “He talked about a George, sometimes. I think that’s you. He said you were annoying but witty.”

 _Christ, John._ George clears his throat. “Funny, that’s what I used to say about him.”

Sean gives him a carefully little grin. “I dunno what witty means.”

Ringo and George lock eyes, chuckling, and Paul rakes a hand through Sean’s mane of hair. “Witty means that you’re funny in a very quick and smart way,” Paul explains with a soft smile. “Your dad and George used to be very witty with each other. They would fight loads.”

“Daddy says fighting is wrong and hurts people,” Sean frowns, and George wants to cry at his little statement. He wouldn’t be surprised if John told him that after another violent row with one of them. “Why is that funny?”

“It’s fighting in a positive way. We call it ‘banter’. You argue lovingly,” Ringo says. “And when it starts to turn sour and mean, you stop, you cool off, and you apologize. Right, Geo?”

George looks at Ringo, with his tired face and absurdly pretty eyes, and detects the slightest hint of bitterness in his tone. Foolish how they teach a child lessons in life, while unable to listen to those lessons themselves. He glances at Sean again, who’s looking at him with wide eyes, and nods with a small smile. “Exactly. Always apologize, but be sure you mean it.”

Sean purses his lips, contemplating. “Okay. Daddy said that too.”

“Then it’s true,” George affirms.

Sean proceeds to insist to sit in George’s lap. George doesn’t mind at all – Sean is fuckin’ adorable and smart and so, so curious, exactly how he imagines Dhani in a couple of years, and he loves answering the questions the little lad throws at him – and helps him peel the banana Ringo had brought from the cafeteria.

“Can we wait in that room, now?” Sean asks after an hour or so. “My books are there, and it’s nicer. Less cold.”

The three of them nod in agreement and start to move. The walls of the little room are a faded yellow and the floor a pastel blue. There’s a television and two, comfortable-looking sofa’s, and there’s a twin bed shoved in the corner with messed up sheets. A small suitcase filled with clothes and a bigger one filled with books and some VHS-tapes lay at the foot of the bed, and Sean hurries towards them, digging through the pile.

The room is indeed warmer; it’s a cosy type of warmth, soothing and relaxing, and the fatigue hits him like a fuckin’ tidal wave. His brief yawn turns into a laugh when Sean yells at him from his book-filled suitcase to put a hand in front of his mouth, because _“that’s more polite, George!!!”_ and Ringo leans down with a rumble of fond laughter to place a loud kiss on the kid’s head.

Paul collapses on one of the sofas and pulls George down with him, placing his head on George’s shoulder. He looks more exhausted than George feels and lets out a sigh when George brushes his nose over the top of his head. The sinking of the pillows and the sudden warmth notifies George of Ringo joining them and he links the two of them at the elbows, smiling at Ringo’s little rumble of laughter. Sean then returns with a thin book, a determined look on his little face, and climbs without warning into George and Paul’s lap while thrusting the book at Ringo.

To make the position work, George leans back more heavily in the cushions and Ringo scoots even closer. Sean has grasped Paul’s hand tightly in his and leans against George’s chest, head resting against Ringo’s arm, and listens with big eyes as Ringo reads to him, doing all the exaggerated voices like he reads professionally on the telly.  It’s endearing, very much so, and when George leans his head back a little in an attempt at relaxing he knocks heads with Paul.

“ _Ow,_ ” Paul whines, eyes narrowing in a slight glare. “ _Rude,_  Geo.”

A sarcastic snipe is about to leave his lips when he stops himself, knowing the fragility of their peace and  _of fuckin’ course_  wanting to set an example for the child in his lap. He swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says instead, and the apology is sincere.

Paul sighs as a way of replying and places his head on George’s shoulder again. Ringo, who’d paused when Paul and George had spoken, raises an inquisitive eyebrow but starts reading again.

They sit in silence for the rest of the little book. Both Paul and Sean begin to feel heavier against him after they’ve almost reached the end, and halfway through the text on the page Ringo yawns. He wipes his eyes and glances at Sean, mouth quirking into a smile.

“I think he’s asleep,” he whispers, closing the book as silently as possible. George, almost scared to breathe and disturb the little boy, nods and glances at Paul, who seems completely passed out.

Ringo gently pushes Sean back into George, George wrapping his free arm around Sean, and stands up. The sudden position change and the speed at which the cushions spring back into a position closer to their original now that the weight decreased, makes Sean stir a little. George’s gaze shoots towards Ringo, who looks quite frightened, before staring right back at the boy in his arms. Sean, however, just sighs softly and burrows himself deeper in George’s chest, and the both of them sigh in relief.

Paul, however, does wake up. He groans lowly, lifting his head from George’s shoulder and sitting up straight, stretching his limbs. Rubbing his reddened eyes, he blinks, wincing. It’s then when he takes note of his surroundings.

“You fell asleep,” George whispers, “but Ringo standing up somehow woke you.”

Paul lifts his gaze to a sheepishly grinning Ringo, who’s still clutching the book in his hands. “That was rude,” he breathes with a glare, but then yawns. “ _God_ , I’m exhausted.”

George nudges Paul’s leg with his, inclining his head in the direction of the twin bed. “Go sleep for a little. You too, Rings, you look like absolute shit.”

“Gee, thanks Geo,” Ringo whispers sarcastically, but he pulls Paul to his feet anyway. “You sure know how to make a man feel attractive,”

“I sure as fuck do,” he murmurs back, and then he lifts one leg. “But first, will you help me get me shoes off? I wanna lay back on the couch so Sean’s a little more comfortable.”

Ringo, who’s already standing at the edge of the bed, shoves Paul so that he falls right onto the mattress, facedown. Hilariously enough he stays like that, not even bothering to move his head in a more comfortable position. Ringo sighs deeply. “I have to do everything around here,” he mutters grumpily, already pulling at Paul’s converse. After wiggling them off he quietly sets them aside, walking over to George and kneeling in front of him, undoing the laces.

“If your feet reek I am literally going to hit you in the face,” Ringo hisses, face pulled into a sneer. George chuckles as quietly as possible and when Ringo gets them off, he blows silent kisses at his mate. Ringo doesn’t even hide his smile.

“Have a nice nap, Ritchie,” George whispers. Ringo winks, turning off the lights before wiggling off his own shoes and walking back towards the bed. It isn’t completely dark – it’s still very much light out, and the curtains aren’t blocking sunlight – so George is able to follow all of his movements. He shoves Paul towards the wall gently, crawling onto the bed next to him, and tugging the sheets over both their bodies. It takes less than a minute before soft snores are filling the room. George rolls his eyes fondly, adjusting Sean a little and twisting his body to be able to lie down on the sofa.

It takes ages before he stops wiggling around in the hope of finding a comfortable position, settling on a position that will most likely ensure an annoying amount of pain his back for the rest of the day after waking up. Oddly enough, though, he’s absolutely fine with that prospect; Sean is curled up against him, thumb in his mouth, and Ringo and Paul are snoring about three feet away from him, and a calm satisfaction settles in his stomach.

So he, too, closes his eyes and sighs, exhaustion taking over, mind drifting away into darkness.


	2. it feels like years since it's been here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED(but not beta'ed) 27-09-2019

When George wakes there’s no longer the weight of a five-year-old on his chest, and his back is fuckin’  _killing_ him. He blinks, rubbing at his dry eyes, and he somehow feels even more exhausted than before.  _“Is that even possible?”_ he thinks grumpily, glancing at the curtains.

Soft, yellowish lighting is seeping through the thin, flimsy fabric and he realises it’s still day, which means he’s either slept for only a couple of hours or he’s slept an entire day. When he glances to the side, though, he spots Paul’s mop of black hair peeking out from under the light blue sheets and he realises he’s probably been unconscious for no more than a few hours. Ringo is nowhere to be seen, much like Sean – they’ve probably gone and gotten some food, or the doctor allowed them to visit John for a little. He hopes it’s the latter.

George sits upright and winces at the pain shooting through his back.  _Fuck_ , he regrets sleeping like that, but there’s nothing to be done about it now – besides, apart from the stiffness in his muscles, the little amount of sleep did him well and his mind finally feels a little sharper.

Just as he’s standing and stretching, the door opens, and Yoko walks in. Her eyes, so  _annoyingly_ aloof and knowing all at the same bloody time, widen at the sight of him: either she’s surprised to see him, or he really looks like shit.  _“Probably a combination of both,”_  George muses when her nose scrunches up ever-so-slightly, and he walks towards her, pointing towards the door. She nods.

The linoleum of the hospital-floor is colder against his socked feet than in the little room, and it wakes him up. Yoko takes about four steps before turning around, crossing her arms. It’s awfully silent for a minute or so as they just stare at each other blankly. George, for one, really doesn’t know what to say.

It’s Yoko who breaks the tense silence.

“Thank you for coming,” she says softly. She sounds hoarse,  _tired_ , and doesn’t meet his eyes. “I think – I think John will appreciate that.”

It’s not like her at all, this behaviour, and George is both unnerved and worried. Yoko usually oozes assertiveness and confidence – something he’s silently envied and  _hated_  for years – and now she looks insecure and lost, like she’s not sure where to step without risking having everything falling apart.

George sighs and lifts his hand to his unravelling bun. “I couldn’t  _not_  come,” he answers, and his voice sounds even hoarser than hers. He coughs to clear his throat. “I might not be on the best of terms with the both of you, but he’s still my br-  _friend._ And Paul sounded like needed me, so I came.”

Yoko stares at him with that intense stare that she has, unblinking, before she nods, bowing briefly. A lock of jet black hair falls in front of her face. “Thank you, again. You didn’t come for yourself.”

George is too tired to truly realise what it means, but he nods anyway. “Ritchie told me you’re handling the press?” he then asks. “Did you tell them to fuck off?”

A ghost of a smile passes her lips, but it’s gone before George can blink. “I suppose you could call it that, yes.”

“Good.” There’s a pause again, a little less tense than the first one, and he sighs. “You should get some sleep, love. I’m afraid Paul’s taken the bed hostage, but the couch is probably comfortable if you throw a couple of cushions off and are your length instead of mine-”

She huffs a laugh. “You brits constantly call people ‘love’, even though none of those people areyour love. Ringo called me ‘love’ too. John too, before we started dating. It’s weird.”

George blinks. “I called you love?”

“Yes,” she answers, nodding.

George blinks again. “Oh.” He pauses. Then: “Sorry about that.”

Yoko shakes her head, the smallest of smiles on her face, lifting her hand, and tells him it’s fine. He cracks a smile back, before the door opens and he hears Sean’s call for his mother, paired with a  _“look, look, look! Uncle Ringo got me some strawberries and a balloon!”_.

The tone of Yoko’s sigh gives away her exhaustion but she smiles nevertheless, crouching ‘till she’s at eye-level. “That’s great, Sean-chan,” she whispers and strokes his cheek adoringly before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. He giggles and squirms, letting go of his balloon. The thing floats to the ceiling and stays there.

“Alright now son, you’re losing something there,” Ringo mutters, reaching to grab the string of the balloon. Yoko releases Sean almost too willingly and Sean races towards Ringo, tugging at his trouser leg and jumping to get his balloon. He smiles brightly when he’s reunited with it, but then frowns, glancing at Ringo questioningly.

“What’s wrong, lad?” Ringo asks. He reaches out and smooths Sean’s hair out gently, tugging at one stubborn cowlick very gently.

Sean looks up at him, lips pursed and eyebrows drawn together in a very John-like way, and he glances at his mum before looking Ringo again. “You’re not my dad,” he then says in an as-a-matter-of-fact-tone of voice, and George has to stifle a snort.

Ringo looks surprised, glancing at Yoko and George amusedly. “I- no, son. I’m not.”

“Then why do you call me son?”

Ringo locks gazes with George, despair in his baby blues. George smiles as a way of replying and crouches down, pulling Sean’s T-shirt in its proper position. “It’s a… term of endearment where we’re from,” he says, but Sean continues to frown.

“What’s that?” he asks. He sounds genuinely curious.

“It’s eh- you know what, let me give you an example.” George finishes straightening out Sean’s T-shirt, grasping him gently by the shoulders. “Do your parents call you anything else except yer name?” he asks. There’s a nod. “Like… sweetie? Sweetheart?” another nod. “That’s a term of endearment. Paul, Ringo, yer father, and I call each other terms of endearment too, but we call each other ‘lad’, ‘mate’, ‘bud’, or ‘son’, and very sometimes ‘love’ or somethin’ else. When Ringo calls me son, he doesn’t mean that he’s my dad. It’s just something he calls me.”

“Like a nickname?” Sean asks shyly. George nods, and Sean purses his lips again before looking up at Ringo. “Thanks for the balloon,  _son._ ”

Ringo looks like he just might collapse right then and there, George falls on his arse and has to wipe his tears away, and he's pretty sure he even hears Yoko giggle.

 

The doctor allows them into John’s room,  _finally,_  the next day. He had been relocated to a normal – but private – ward, no longer in critical condition, meaning regular visitor’s hours apply – but also meaning they can stay there the entire day if they want to, being closely ‘related’.

Yoko calls them in the early morning. They’d been able to coax Paul back to the hotel the evening before – Yoko stayed in the hospital with Sean, sharing the twin bed – and he’s curled up against George, one hand clutching the soft cotton of George’s sleeping shirt and the other clutching Ringo’s hand, when the phone rings. Ringo rises from his position next to Paul and almost sprints towards the telephone, leaping over the sofa in his haste. He answers calmly, and the rest of his answers a short  _hm_ ’s or  _alright’_ s making George itch to know who’s calling. Ritchie’s voice wobbles when he says goodbye and he places the phone back onto the receiver, staring at his friends for a while.

“We need to get dressed,” he says, sounding very close to crying. “We can visit him.”

Paul just about launches himself upright, stumbling over himself in his haste to put on his pair of jeans, and George hurriedly follows them. George pockets a pack of cigs and a lighter, Ringo pockets the key to the room, and Paul’s already out the door. They sprint after him, taking the stairs instead of the lift, and none of them realise they’re not wearing their coats until they’re outside, desperately hailing a cab.

George rubs his bare arms and curses New York winter weather for being even bloody  _colder_  than UK winter weather, and a fuckin’ _freezing_  breeze notifies him of the wet spot on his shoulder, due to either Paul’s drool during the night or his tears during the early morning. But honestly, George cannot care less. They’re allowed to visit John.

One of those yellow taxi’s stops right in front of them and they jump in. Ringo nearly screeches at the poor cabbie that they need to go the Mt Sinai West Hospital, and George can’t even bring himself to smile reassuringly when the guy makes nervous eye contact with him in the rear-view mirror, so anxious that he’s mauling his lower lip again and looks left and right, not able to concentrate on anything. Paul is curled up next to him, feet pulled up on the seat, deathly pale and chewing his nails, and Ringo’s on his other side, slapping drumbeats on his knees and sighing every so often. He’s still wearing his house-slippers, and it would have looked comical had George not felt so terrible. The night before he’d been unable to sleep, an odd amount of adrenaline running through his system, and he feels both exhausted and alert. It’s making his head pound and he pinches the bridge of his nose before picking at his fingernails again.

Then  _“it must look like we’re on drugs,”_ runs through his head – and suddenly he snaps out of his anxious ticks. He sits up straighter, inhales deeply, and smiles at the driver with a nod, who significantly relaxes at the sight of it.

The cabbie doesn’t try to make small talk and silently does his job, obviously thinking they’re complete nutjobs belonging to the psychiatry ward, and George doesn’t blame him. As soon as the taxi stops, Ringo pulls some bills from his wallet and flings them in the direction of the driver, George yelling a  _“thank you!”_  over his shoulder as the stumble out of the car. They just about sprint to the entrance, ignoring paparazzi and photographers, and end up at the reception panting and panicked; the woman behind the desk, the same one as yesterday, doesn’t recognise them and asks for ID.

“I’ve forgotten mine,” George states, mouth dry. Ringo empties his pockets and murmurs in agreement, while Paul pats himself down in panic, almost crying as he states he’s forgotten his as well.

A wave of protectiveness flows through him at the sight of Paul’s obvious distress, and with one glance at Ringo – who seemingly pales at the look in George’s eyes – he leans forward. Suddenly he  _can_  smile, and he knows his grin looks dangerous when the woman leans back a little. The start of anger simmers in his veins. “Listen, love,” he starts, frowning, “I’ve had a long,  _long_ couple of days. It’s not every day that yer best friend gets shot four times and is saved from the brink of death, y’know? Not really  _common_  for me. Now, you’ve seen me yesterday asking where Mr John Lennon was, didn’t you? I’m sure you recognise me. My face was fully visible. So you know who I am, yeah?”

She blinks, cheeks a flaming red. “George Harrison?”

“Spot on,” he replies. “Now, we’d like to know where our friend is, so we can visit him.” He grins again, rather maniacally, and points at one of the large books on her desk. “We’ve been told he’s been relocated?”

The woman’s hands shake slightly as she skims through the book, finger following the  _L, J_ ’s before she stops and blurts out a floor and a room number. Before George has processed it, Paul’s already taken off at top speed. George doesn’t even have the time to thank the woman as he speeds after Paul, though he hears Ringo yelling a  _“thank you!”_.

Paul chooses the stairs, and they follow. Though George does consider it a smart decision – the lift is probably just as quick but will make them more anxious – he silently curses his friend as they climb the steps two at a time, heart high up in his throat and lungs feeling like they’re bleeding. Paul nearly trips three times in his haste to reach the correct floor.

When they reach the correct level it once again filters with George that they probably look positively crazed: three out of four Beatles, one still dressed in a pyjama shirt, one in slippers, and one with hair ‘till his shoulders, racing through the hallways and slipping as they run through the corners, all three of them heaving and panting like a bunch of old horses.

The room John’s staying in is apparently again private, having a separate hallway. As they reach it, George spots another extra door – probably another guest room – before zoning in on Yoko and, most importantly, Sean.

Sean and Yoko sit on the crappy wooden chairs, both pale. Sean’s eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks blotchy, and George, who’s grown embarrassingly fond of the boy in such a short period of time, sinks through his knees in front of him, combing his fingers through Sean’s hair. Paul collapses next to Yoko and Ringo, positively spent, decides that the floor is a brilliant place to sit.

Yoko nods at the three of them, face void of emotion but eyes slightly reddened. She pats Paul’s knee – who’s started coughing and wheezing after he’d sat down, smoker’s lungs – and then points in the direction of the door that separates John from them.

 “You can go visit him now,” she says softly. “Please.”

Ringo sits up a little straighter, still panting slightly, and runs his fingers through Sean’s hair lovingly. He then rises, pulling gently at George’s shoulder to get him to stand. Paul, too, gets onto his feet, brushing his fingers over Yoko’s shoulder in a passing and then gently swiping his thumb over Sean’s tear-streaked cheeks, before impatiently pulling George upright. They quickly disinfect their hands, glancing one last time at Yoko and Sean, and enter the room.

Ringo is the one to open the door. They’re greeted by the strongest scent of  _hospital_  as of yet: antiseptic, bleach, soap – sterile. The sheets on John’s bed are white, bedspread a pastel yellow, and when George directs his gaze at the friend in question his eyes start to burn. John looks pale, so pale, and fragile and  _small_ , hooked up to a plethora of machines and wires and tubes. His chest rises and falls like it’s supposed to, and the heart rate monitor beeps steadily; his exposed shoulder is wrapped in white bandages.

Paul lets out a whimper.

George sees it coming quicker than Ringo and is already supporting his best friend when his knees give out. Ringo drags out a chair and George deposits Paul onto it.

Paul’s gone awfully pale – if George is being honest, he rivals John at the moment – and is slowly but shakily breathing through his nose as he stares at his best mate. His hands shake and George’s first instinct is to fold them in his hands, but he refrains from that impulse and he doesn’t know why.

Ringo approaches the bed. There’s another chair, right next to John, and he sits down, placing a tentative hand on the sheets.

“Hey mate,” he says shakily, “fancy seein’ y here.”

Paul lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and without thinking George clutches him close. Paul presses his face into George’s T-shirt again and George starts playing with Paul’s hair, while Ringo continues to speak.

“Suppose it might be a bit sudden, y’know, havin’ me talk to ye without it being through the phone, but yeah. I’m here for ye, John. And so is Paul, and George, and yer Yoko and Sean are here, and Julian probably can’t wait to visit. Anyroad, we’re all here now mate. The three of us, then.” Ringo inhales and exhales, squeezing his eyes shut. The hand on John’s bed clenches into a fist. “We’d like ye to wake up now, John, if you’d like.”

Even though he knows it’s virtually impossible, George’s eyes land on John in the hope of seeing some signs. He wills himself to see, to spot something,  _anything_  that hints at the man waking up. Anything, from a flutter of his lids to a muscle pulling at the corner of his mouth and a twitching finger.

Nothing.

Disappointed, George looks away.

Ringo starts talking again, about whatever; about his new home, about some songs he’s written from time to time in the comfort of the shade, about his kids being annoyed with him, about the sweet, round taste of bananas and the bitter sting of coffee, and about how Paul and George showed up in similar outfits, just a couple of hours apart. He talks about the weather, about how he’s still wearing his slippers and Paul his silk pyjama shirt, and about how he’s thinking of quitting smoking but  _“you’re making this hard on me, Lennon”_.

At some point Paul pushes himself away from George and slowly walks closer, asking to be alone with John for a while.

It’s so normal and natural that Ringo and George obey without a second thought. They leave the room and see Yoko, Sean on her hip, mentioning for the both of them to come over. She looks completely and utterly stressed, hair more messed up than usual, and she wipes at her mouth. Sean is crying his eyes out and trashing in her arms – a clear temper tantrum thrown by a tired five-year-old – and her eyes are tearing up.

“Could you – please-” she starts, and Ringo silently takes Sean over. She thanks him profusely, already half crying, hysterically muttering something about an  _agent_ and  _the press_  before she vanishes.

Ringo sits down on the ground, silent as he allows Sean to scream, and George sits down as well. It takes Sean about six minutes before his wailing starts to die down, two more before his sobs have turned into hiccups. He rubs at his eyes, mouth still pulled into a nasty scowl, and sits down with a huff. George reaches out one hand and Sean looks at it for a little while, before placing his own, tiny version on it. George shoots him a small smile. “How about we get some food from the cafeteria, and then take a nap, huh?”

Sean looks at Ringo, who nods encouragingly, and scrunches up his little face again. “I want to see daddy again,” he mutters, ripping his hand away from George’s and crossing his arms in an act of obvious defiance. “I want to know if he’s awake yet.”

Ringo and George glance at each other, and Ringo bites his lip before directing his gaze back at Sean. “’m afraid he’s not awake yet, sweetheart,” he says, voice incredibly soft and gentle. “Daddy needs time to heal, that’s why he’s asleep, and he probably will be for a little while longer.”

“How long?” the boy demands, scowling. “I want to know how long.”

George sucks on his bottom lip thoughtfully. “I’ll get a doctor,” he says. “You two stay ‘ere, alright?”

Ringo nods and pulls Sean closer to his chest, who allows the action and melts against Ringo. George quickly walks out of their secluded corridor and immediately bumps into a nurse.

“Excuse me,” he says, and he flashes a small smile. “I have a small question.”

“Of course,” the nurse answers. “No problem. Ask away.”

“I was wonderin’ how long Mr Lennon will be kept asleep,” he knows his tone of voice isn’t the most friendly anymore, but he’s too emotionally drained to sound nice. “His son is insisting, you see, and-”

“I’m afraid only our head-doctor knows that, so I will need to ask,” the nurse smiles apologetically, but points at a small space behind a mock-reception area. “I’ll be right back, Mr Harrison.”

George leans against the large desk situated in the middle and looks around. A small fish-tank has been placed on top of the desk, containing two goldfish and some water plants. It’s probably a way to brighten the place up a little, but it does quite little in his opinion: the water is dirty and greenish, and he can’t help but scowl a little.

The nurse he approached appears from the back room, closely followed by a woman with a white coat on. She nods at him, smiling politely.

“I heard you were inquiring about the state of Mr Lennon, sir?” she asks, voice gentle and calm. He nods. “Alright. Let’s go somewhere more private?”

She’s already walking towards a smaller, secluded room, probably used for drinking coffee by the smell of it. She mentions for him to sit down when he appears in the doorway, and when he does, she smiles at him solemnly.

“The first thing I suppose you’d appreciate knowing is that we are not keeping Mr Lennon in a medically induced coma, it’s his own body’s reaction to receiving as much trauma as he has. Two bullets to the back, with one having punctured his left lung, and two in his shoulder, all of which we’ve had to remove, and he suffered from a tremendous amount of blood loss. Although transfusions have added to his health, it is almost impossible to tell when he’s going to wake up. We usually see about two to three days, so he might awaken any moment now, but we’ve also had cases where the patient was in a coma for quite some time – up to three weeks.” She pauses, pins him down with a look that reminds him of his mother. “Do you understand?”

He clears his throat. “I do, ma’am.”

It’s still hard to hear.

 

Giving little Sean the news that he might have to wait for two more weeks results in another temper tantrum, which in turn results in Ringo and George unanimously deciding that Mr Lennon junior should be put promptly to bed. The curtains in the second guest room are thankfully made of heavier material, causing the room to be flooded in darkness even during the day. Sean, though very grumpy, falls asleep within minutes while George strokes his hair and Ringo reads to him, and they silently leave the guest room about ten minutes after the child has drifted away into unconsciousness.

Paul is sitting on one of the wooden chairs when they return to the hallway, eyes a little red but looking a lot less distressed. He rests his head on George’s shoulder when the latter sits down next to him, hums in understanding when Ringo informs him of the  _“it’ll probably take two more weeks,”_  words by the doctor, and even chuckles along when George makes a bad joke about  _typical John, always wanting to sleep in_. It’s when they sit in the cafeteria, however, when he drops a bomb that he’s probably just thought of on a whim.

“It might be a good idea for us to return home to England for a little while, don’t you think so, Geo?” he asks, while nonchalantly forking a piece of apple pie in his mouth. “If it’ll take so long for John to wake up, we’ll be doing nothin’ here but waiting. We’ve got little kids at home, George. Don’t ye agree?”

George had frozen when Paul had mentioned it, his fork halfway near his mouth, and the bite-sized piece of pie falls from the prongs and onto the table.

He hasn’t thought about it yet. The entire trip is on a complete whim, really, and he hasn’t even called Olivia to say he’s reached the destination safely or to update her on how the situation is going to develop. He swallows.

“I suppose,” he says lowly, accepting the paper napkin Ringo offers him, wiping the pie from the wood. “I’m not – I haven’t really thought about it yet. But I think you might be right.”

Paul smiles brightly at that, but the façade doesn’t trick George; he spots the blankness behind Paul’s eyes, the way his grin is the same fake one he oftentimes flashes at fans when they bother him but he doesn’t want to hurt their feelings. “Great! I’ll make some calls and see which plane we can take tonight.”

“Tonight?” George stutters, and he glances at Ringo. The drummer has gone a little pale and pushes his half-finished pie away from him, crossing his arms weakly. George locks eyes with Paul again. “Wha- I-  _tonight?”_

“Yes, is that a problem?” Paul’s smile falters slightly. “I want to see my kids, Geo, come on now-”

“And I want to see Dhani, but don’t you think it’s a little… soon?” he cringes when Paul’s smile falls from his face completely. “I mean, why don’t we leave tomorrow morning? Or afternoon? Less than twelve hours ago we had to drag you out of the hospital to sleep, and now you already want to fly over the pond?”

Paul lowers his fork. “I want to see my kids, and I want to see Linda.”

“But-”

“You don’t  _know_ what I want, Geo,” Paul hisses, eyebrows pulling together and eyes narrowing in frustration. “If you want to fuckin’ stay here and not fly with me and be absolutely  _useless_  to John, that’s bloody  _fine._  But you  _don’t know_  what  _I_ want right now, so don’t you dare even  _attempt_  changing my mind.”

George averts his eyes, inhaling shakily. “Macca-”

“Don’t you  _‘Macca’_  me.” Paul throws back his tea and slams the cup back down on the saucer with so much force George thinks for a brief moment the porcelain has shattered. “I don’t even know why you’d like to stay, ye haven’t shown an  _inkling_  of emotion since ye got here, just continually all  _stone-faced_ ‘n shite like you don’t even  _care.”_  Paul raises his gaze, eyes suddenly full of fire. “Of course you don’t, ye didn’t even  _acknowledge_ John – _or any of us_ – in that bloody book of yours-”

“I’ve received enough scorn from John for that, thank you-”

_“-so why are you here then, George?”_  Paul sneers. He stabs his fork into his apple pie so harshly the prongs scrape against the plate. “You haven’t even  _tried_  to be my-  _our_ friend over the past decade so why in the name of  _fuck_ would you even think of coming here, now? Why would you  _dare?”_

From his peripheral vision, George spots Ringo’s head snapping between the two of them. George bites down on his lower lip until his hardly healed skin breaks again, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, inhaling through his nose. Then he opens his eyes. “I deserved that,” he states quietly, and Paul scoffs. George puts down his fork and plays with his fingers. “I haven’t been the most…  _supportive_  friend these past years. I’ve been quite tangled up with myself. Granted, only Ringo replied genuinely when I  _did_ reach out. John always made a lot of promises ‘e could never keep and never dared to sacrifice anything, and you were always too busy to talk over a bloody cuppa or over the phone for longer than five minutes. I know neither is an excuse for me being an arse but they were part of the reason  _why._ ” George looks up. “The reason I decided to get on a plane and come here is that when you called, ye sounded like you needed someone. I hadn’t even processed that John’d been shot, until it was all I heard on the radio in the car over to the airport and at the airport itself, and it just gave me more motivation to enter the plane. You three are, even after all that ‘as happened, still my _family,_ Paul.” His voice cracks on Paul’s name, and he clears his throat. “I couldn’t just leave you lot. If you want to go home tonight I’ll go with ye. But please, let’s just stay today, and leave tomorrow afternoon? Let’s just take a little more time.”

Paul’s eyes have become teary again. His mouth quivers and he inhales deeply. “Ye’re a _twat.”_

“I know,” George says softly.

It’s silent for a little while before Ringo clears his throat. “I think we’re all twats, aren’t we, lads?” he offers, and George chuckles weakly while Paul nods.

“I’m sorry for lashing out,” Paul says quietly, eyes averted. “My feelings are all over the place today, I’m _sorry,_ Geo-”

“But I deserved it, didn’t I?” George smiles, “thought we’d established that just now. Though, I expected ye to be angry longer, honestly.”

Paul bites his lip. “Well,” he states, drumming his fingers on the table before spreading his arms. “Give us a hug, won’t ye?”

George stands up, walking around the table to hug Paul from behind. The other man sighs somewhat shakily and mutters something, and Ringo joins in. They sit there for a short while, breathing each other in, before they all simultaneously pull back. Paul swivels around and grasps George’s face in his hand, kissing his nose, and takes a look at his face.

“Why don’t ye cry?” he then asks, sounding awfully choked up. “It’s weird. Why haven’t you cried yet?”

“Because I don’t like crying,” George says.  _“Because I don’t want to upset you more,”_  is what he doesn’t say.

Paul nods slightly, releasing George and pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes. “I’m sorry for bein’ such a mess,” he whispers, and Ringo reaches out to fold his hand around Paul’s. “I just- I don’t know what to feel y’know? Relieved that he’s alive? Sad that he isn’t awake? Sad that  _Sean_  just stays here constantly, instead of bein’ at home and bein’ a kid?”

“You’re not obliged to feel anything, mate,” Ringo says gently. “John almost died. It’s alright to be upset about that.”

“Speakin’ of Sean, I think the little bugger might’ve awakened by now,” George mutters, glancing at his watch. “And if ‘e hasn’t, I suppose it’s more comfortable for us to share our feelings while  _not_  being in a public place. We can bring some snacks along for ‘im, maybe?”

Ringo nods silently, and Paul laughs a teary laugh. “You and yer cold, hard, shiny exterior,” he says slowly.

George manages to quirk a smile. “Like a beetle, no?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Next chapter will be up sometime tomorrow, or the day after that :)  
> xx


	3. i feel that ice is slowly melting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED(but not beta'ed) 27-09-2019

It’s way too late, and George is wide awake.

Macca is, like the night before, curled up into his side with Ritchie in turn next to him. The room is awfully cold above the blanket; something that makes the kicks to the shin(Paul’s always slept restlessly when he’s very stressed) worth the extra warmth.

It can be considered odd, his sleeplessness. Ringo’s soft snoring and Paul’s loud sighs used to be a great way to help him sleep. John’s grunting, annoyed noises and near-constant position changing should’ve technically kept George awake every single time they bunked together(which was a lot), but actually had a calming effect, and the sounds of one of his best mates sleeping or  _attempting_ to sleep were perfect to help him drift away into unconsciousness. But now, even Paul’s steady breathing can’t push his eyes closed, and so he stares at the pitch-black darkness of the ceiling.

George sighs in frustration after another two minutes (or ten) and squeezes his dry eyes shut. Paulie’s hand, that had landed on his chest mere minutes after Paul’d passed out, feels heavy and warm. He carefully leans his head against Paul’s and tries to empty his mind. Of course, that doesn’t work  _at all_  and he’s slowly starting to lose hope.

They’re going to leave tomorrow. Or today. Whatever, he hasn’t looked at a clock in quite some time.

After they’d returned from the cafeteria and found Sean still fast asleep, Ringo had ushered George and Paul towards a phone.  _“Call the wives,”_ he’d muttered with a fond scowl.  _“They’re probably itching to know what’s goin’ on.”_

And they had. Paul had allowed George to go first because he had to take a leak.

The sound of Olivia’s voice over the telephone had been as comforting as it was uncomfortable. He’d missed her a little more than he’d realised, and the mere way she spoke to him, the understanding and the calm way she pronounced the words, almost made him want to cry. But he swallowed the bitterness in his throat.

 _“Paul and I will probably be leavin’ tomorrow afternoon,”_ he’d said.  _“I don’t know how long I’ll be home, then – I’ll probably return as soon as ‘e wakes up.”_

 _“That’s fine, love,”_ she’d answered.

 _“I know you probably think I’m nuts,”_  he’d pressed his forehead against the cold metal of the box surrounding the phone.  _“I think I’ve gone mad, honestly. I’m certain John dislikes me, yet I want to be ‘ere when he’s awake. Am I mad, Liv?”_

 _“I don’t think you’re mad, Geo,”_  she’d whispered into the receiver.  _“I think you’re worried about your brother.”_

He hadn’t known what to reply to that.  _“I miss Dhani and you.”_  He’d said instead.  _“Loads.”_

 _“We miss you too. He’s constantly asking where you are.”_ He could hear the smile in her voice.  _“Alright, Dhani’s calling for me. I’ve got to hang up. I love you, see you soon.”_

_“I love you too.”_

The line had been dead for a solid five minutes before Paul returned, eagerly grabbing the receiver from George’s loose grip and dialling his own home. George stayed with him as he gently told each kid he loved them, basically cooing when little James babbled something. He then told Linda he’d probably be flying back the following afternoon, if there was place on the plane. After Paul had hung up, they decided to call the airline for two first-class tickets to Heathrow. It didn’t even take five minutes before they’d reserved seats on the plane.

The prospect of going home genuinely excites George, especially now. It might be part of the reason for his little bout of insomnia, the excitement, but he knows not to credit it entirely. He’s also feeling dread.

For some weird reason he doesn’t want to leave yet. Call it instinct, but he’s got a feeling neither of them is ready to go back. He came here for a reason he’s still not entirely sure about – apart from Paul needing him, of course – and he feels like whatever is troubling him should be resolved before he leaves again.

But he _really_ wants to see Dhani.

George groans, loudly, and turns his head to stick his nose in Paul’s fluffy, freshly washed, like fake coconut-smelling hair. All three of them had been in desperate need of a shower after they’d returned from the hospital and the only type of soap any of them had brought along was some bar Ringo used after shaving. Thankfully their hotel provides small versions of shampoo and body wash, and the three of them had used those royally. It was – and is – a blessing to sleep next to someone who doesn’t smell like cigarettes, anxiety-sweat, and old coffee.

Paul stirs at both the sound of George’s groan and the feeling of someone being pressed against him more tightly, but he doesn’t wake. Ringo coughs through a snore and George’s mind continues to stir. Memories pop up in his head like experimental film or pictures, yellowed and damaged with age and faded around the edges. Frazzled, spotty memories of hiking with Paul and playing with the Quarrymen for the first time, leaving for Hamburg, losing Stu. The thought of his first time makes him want to both snort and hide his face with embarrassment, and memories of arguments and songwriting and relaxing twirl around in his mind in a haze, separate events bleeding into each other until he can’t tell when the first one ended and the last began.

He’s still awake when Ringo awakens with a sharp inhale, sitting up to get some water and order breakfast, before leaving the room in a hush. George himself now rolls out of bed tiredly, shivering when he discards his blanket and tucks Paul in a little more, cold air hitting his bare feet. He rummages through his luggage, deciding on jeans, a t-shirt, and some jacket, and goes to take a shower.

His hair’s still wet and dripping water into his collar as he sits cross-legged on the small sofa, playing a random assortment of soft chords on his guitar to beat the boredom, when Ringo walks in. He smells of cigarettes and eyes the bottle of whiskey with interest, but his eyes shoot away from it when he spots George’s questioning gaze.

“Mornin’,” Ringo mutters, closing the door of their hotel room behind him gently. He walks in a little further and glances at the heap on the double bed. “Macca’s still out?”

“Suppose,” George answers. He carefully sets his guitar aside and looks at his hands, starts picking at a hangnail on his thumb. “Haven’t heard ‘im stir if tha’s what ye mean.”

“Is ‘e dead?” Ritchie walks towards the blanket-burrito that  _could_  be Paul and pokes at it. “He looks dead.”

George smiles a little. “Might be dead,” he answers.

“Fuck’s sake, Macca, you better not be dead.” Ringo scowls. “I slept next to a dead body if you are. Can you imagine? A  _dead_  body.”

“Disgustin’,” George adds helpfully.

 _“Disgusting,”_ Ringo repeats and the rolled-up duvet starts to stir. “Macca, if you’re really dead, say somethin’.”

 _“You lot’ll be dead if ye don’t shaddup soon,”_  comes from under the blankets.

Ringo laughs and shoots George a smirk, who winks back. “That would make headlines,” he giggles, and the knock on the door signals the arrival of their breakfast. “Amazing.  _“ex-Beatle Paul McCartney kills bandmates after death – Zombie apocalypse?”_  that’d be  _gold.”_  He opens the door, and the boy standing there and holding their breakfast blushes bright red at the sight of him. “Ah, thank you very much!” Ringo basically yells, taking the tray from the lad and putting it on the coffee table. Then, glancing back at George: “You’ve got any dollars on ye?”

Just as George goes through his pockets to find his wallet, Paul sits up, still completely wrapped in the duvet, and shoots George a tired, annoyed look. George smiles at him. “Is it breakfast?” he asks hoarsely, shuffling closer to the foot of the bed without bothering to peel the blankets off him. “Is it, Ritchie? Geo, is it?”

“It is,” Ringo answers, “but I’d like to give this gentleman a tip before sending him off working the masses again.  _Any_ of ye got some bloody money?”

“I’ve got twenty pounds in me pocket,” George mentions, stuffing it back in and standing up to rummage through his duffel bag. “Reckon tha’s not of any use to ye, innit, lad?”

The young boy shuffles in place, cheeks still flaming. “Er- no, sir.”

“Paulie?” George glances to the side when he finds his own wallet, quickly thumbing through to find no American money. “You got any?”

Paul falls back onto the bed. “Pfff, I dunno.” He wiggles one arm free and waves weakly. “Me wallet’s in me bag, find it.”

George sends a glare that, of course, goes unseen by Paul, and searches through Paul’s duffle bag. He fishes out the black leather wallet, opens it, and is greeted by the sight of beautiful, green, American dollars.  _“Aha,”_  he mutters with a triumphant smile and pulls out a fifty-dollar bill. “There we are.”

Ringo snatches the paper from his fingers and gifts it to the boy with a flourish. “Et voila,” he grins, “yer tip.”

The boy thanks them, stuttering a little, before rushing off the help other guests. Ringo closes the door with a self-satisfied smirk; George narrows his eyes. “Why didn’t you try to find something?” he asks, moving towards the plates and grabbing a croissant. “You’ve been in America for a while now, haven’t ye? Have you not yet let go of the fatherland?”

“No, I just didn’t wanna lose fifty dollars.”

Paul now does roll off the bed, still swaddled in the white duvet of the hotel, and crawls next to George on the sofa. He mutters  _“give us some”_  to no one in particular, and George stuffs his croissant in Paul’s mouth.

“We’re all filthy rich, _Ritchie.”_ George deadpans. He decides to make himself a sandwich with one of the small baguettes littering the tray, cutting it open and scooping some scrambled eggs onto it. “Don’t know if ye _recall_ , but-”

“Tomato, tomato.” Ringo waves a hand through the air and bites in a strawberry. “Either way, money doesn’t matter right now, as long as it pays the hospital bills.”

Paul makes solemn noise in agreement, and George just nods into his sandwich.

 

The hospital visit is uneventful. Ritchie rents a car they can leave in the parking lot so that they don’t have to drag their luggage inside, and they get to the right ward without any fuss, this time  _not_  running through the halls like three flamboyantly dressed maniacs – also, none of them are dressed in sleepwear to some degree. They smile at nurses when they reach the separate two rooms for John, they’re surprised to see none other than Elton John sitting on the ground in flamingo-pink, silk trousers and a frilly button-up the shade of Ringo’s eyes, playing with Sean.

Elton, one of the lovelier men in the showbiz George has met, rises to his feet when he sees them and takes his time to envelop each of them in a tight hug. George has to smile when Elton pinches his cheek and mutters stuff about how  _handsome_  he’s gotten, as if George isn’t older than him. He sits back down to continue playing with his godson, informs them that Yoko is currently  _very_  busy and dealing with the press so she can’t say goodbye, and then wishes Paul and George the best before they go say bye to John’s still form.

John is still so incredibly pale and tiny and fragile and  _motionless_ , that George can’t blame Yoko for diving into handling press statements and whatnot. It’s heart-wrenching, really, to see him like this, and that’s why when Paul presses a teary kiss to John’s forehead, George pats merely his good shoulder gently. He’s sure that he can’t handle more contact because it makes it too  _real_ , and despite Paul’s questioning looks they step out of the room not long after entering.

Sean obviously doesn’t want them to go. His little tantrum is lessened by Ringo, who leans towards him with a gentle smile and a slight frown and informs him that he  _will_  be staying. The five of them – Sean, Elton, Ringo, Paul, and him – go for a late brunch/early lunch in the cafeteria and scour the small amount of shops in the hospital to quench their slight boredom. When it’s time for them to leave, though, Sean clings to George in a way he hadn’t expected from a child knowing him for less than three days, crying silent tears of frustration in his neck while George mutters words of comfort in his ear. He switches over to Paul after about five minutes, frowns turned into giggles as Paul smothers Sean in kisses, but pouting again when they announce their leave.

Elton successfully gets Sean to wave goodbye as they leave the ward, and after furiously waving back they indeed start to leave. Ringo mutters something to one of the nurses and the doctor as they pass them. George can’t make out the words, but the nurse nods assertively and pats his arm as a reply. Ringo looks oddly triumphant at that and throws his arms around their shoulders as they walk to the parking lot.

Ringo decides on driving them and he’s silent when they arrive at the airport, all the way to security. He, obviously, doesn’t want them to leave yet as well, but it seems he understands, having kids of his own. He pulls the both of them into a hug without warning, and George inhales his smell of cigarettes and laundry detergent.

“I know I can’t make ye stay,” he mutters, and he pulls back a little. “But I’d love to, honestly.”

“We’ll be back soon,” Paul replies with half a smile. “Just bein’ with the family, being proper da’s an all tha’. We’ll be joining you in that awful waiting room before ye know it, reading books to Sean and being awkward to Yoko, and bawling our eyes out later that night over half a bottle of whiskey and ancient memories. Ain’t that right, Geo?”

“Tha’s right,” George agrees, because  _yes,_  that’s  _exactly_  what his plan is. “And we’ll ‘ave Jules around, too.”

“’Course,” Ringo says, smiling slightly. “I’m considering renting an apartment closer to the hospital, by the way. So Julian can stay there as well and ‘ave a little privacy, much like us.”

Paul makes an approving noise and claps Ringo lovingly on the shoulder, while George slowly nods. It’s indeed a good idea; even if they’ll probably just end up in the same bed, like old times, the possibility of having a little more privacy(and no kicks to the fuckin’ shin) is tempting.

“Suppose you’ll have to get through security soon,” Ringo mutters then after briefly looking at his watch, sounding quite dejected. He eyes the security people with distaste, pouting a little. “Flight’s leavin’ soon.”

“A wondrous flight of nine hours next to the biggest bitch on the planet,” George deadpans. “Joy.”

 _“Hey,”_  Paul elbows him in the side with a giggle, “I’ll have you lot know I am a  _great_  person to be around, alright?”

His smile is genuine, eyes twinkling and crinkling around the corners. George shoots him a lazy grin. “As long as ye don’t drool on me, I’m cool.”

“I do  _not_  drool, Geo-”

_“Like shite ye don’t-”_

“Security, lads?” Ringo raises an eyebrow. “Flight to catch back to England, yer children, yer _wives?”_

Paul waves a weak hand. “Whatever, Ritchie. We’ll be on time. Anyroad, I gotta take a leak first.”

“I gotta go to the loo too,” George mutters.

Ringo lifts his eyes to the heavens. “Dear  _God,”_

“Speakin’,” George replies automatically, not really realising what he’s said before being stabbed in his side by a bony finger.  _“Ow,”_  he hisses, rubbing the new bruise with a glare. “Why must ye be so  _violent?”_

“We’re in the US, remember?” Paul grunts at him and George has to hold back an eye roll. “They’re a little more… iffy about religion, remember?”

_“Whatever.”_

“Git…”

 _“Go pee, for fuck’s sake!”_  Ringo almost bellows, pushing the two of them in the direction of the nearest toilets. “Go, go, go!”

 _“Fine,”_  Paul scowls, and he drops his duffel bag. “I’m leavin’ me luggage with you, though.”

“Me too,” George grins, and Ringo complies with a scowl.

 

When they return from the toilets, an employee of the airport is waiting with their luggage and Ringo is nowhere to be found. Paul’s temper visibly flares up as he stomps towards the guy in a suit, heatedly demanding where the  _fuck_  Ringo is. George slides forward until he’s next to Paul, placing a tentative hand on his friend’s shoulder. Paul, though most conscious of his image, can quite mean when he wants to be, and even George knows that he wouldn’t appreciate a lawsuit made by an airline.

The guy looks a little uncomfortable and George feels for him. “I’m sorry, Mr McCartney,” the lad starts, “but Mr Starr had to arrange something over the phone and requested I stayed with your luggage. I apologize sincerely if I’ve frightened you.”

Paul, already calmed down a lot, huffs and puffs a little before, after a particularly nasty look from George, begrudgingly apologizing for attacking the poor lad like that and picks up his duffel bag, opting to carry it over his shoulder. “I would’ve liked to say goodbye, though,” he pouts, glancing around the space.

George agrees silently, swinging his own bag over his shoulder, and grabbing his guitar case. It’s not like Ringo to just disappear without a trace, especially when they’re about to split up. He’s the type of person to hug you close until time is running out. George bites his lip and glances in the direction of the entrance, squeezing the handle of the case a little too tightly.

Paul looks at his watch and then at security with a contemplative expression on his handsome face. He shuffles on his feet, clearly stalling, and the both of them silently agree to wait about three more minutes before they leave to catch their flight.

The minutes run out way too quickly, seconds ticking by at a speed George would’ve loved to be slower, and they look at each other with a sigh, starting to set off in the direction of security. Their steps are slow and small and George spots Paul pulling at his mullet in frustration.

_“Wait!”_

George swivels around, almost hitting Paul in the face with his duffel bag, and his heart speeds up when he sees Ringo running towards them at top speed. Paul drops his bag without a care in the world, already opening his arms, and Ringo jumps in them, placing a big, fat kiss on Paul’s cheek. He then steps back, face red and panting like a dog, wraps his arms around himself and throws his head back with a laugh.

George and Paul look at each other in confusion before looking back at Ringo, who’s still smiling – but also crying, it seems, as George spots small tears making its way down from the corners of his eyes.

“…Ritchie?” Paul mumbles carefully, taking a step closer to George. “What’s up, mate? We really need to catch our flight-”

Ringo tilts his head back into a normal position, grin filled with happiness, and shakes his head. “You don’t need to anymore,” he whispers.

George’s breath hitches

“W-what are you saying, Ringo?” Paul asks quietly, twiddling his thumbs.

“What I’m saying?” Ringo steps closer, grasping the two of them by the arms, and shakes them slightly. “I’m saying John woke up.”

 

Paul and George’s flight leaves without them at three PM, and traffic is absolute shit as Ritchie manoeuvres them through the city and back to the hospital. Ringo, probably filled from head to toe with adrenaline, honks and swears at other cars, Paul sometimes joining from his seat, while George is busy biting his nails down to the flesh.

It’s a little over four o’clock when they arrive at the hospital. The sun is setting and it’s not late, yet George feels absolutely exhausted. They enter without any problems, no member of staff asks for ID, and they take the elevator. When they arrive at the Lennon corridor, Yoko and Sean step out of John’s room, Sean dead-asleep in Yoko’s arms. She ushers them in with a small incline of her head, smiling at them as they pass her, and Paul bursts in first, then Ringo, and then a  _reluctant_  George – and there’s John.

He’s sitting upright, toying with the lid of a bottle of water with his unharmed hand, looking healthier than he had while he was still asleep as he chats with Elton cheerily. He doesn’t look half as pale as he did before, finally a hint of colour on his cheeks, and he’s wearing his glasses.

Ringo sighs, loudly, and John looks at the door.

A brilliant, bright, true-Lennon smile appears on his face at the sight of them, and he raises his good hand. “Hey,” he croaks, voice sounding shot and painful.

Paul’s face crumples up.

Elton quietly takes his leave with a small kiss pressed to the side of John’s head, smiling lovingly at them as he passes, and closes the door behind him. Paul just stands there, at the foot of John’s bed, breathing shakily; John beckons him closer.

George watches silently as Paul just about buries his face in John’s good shoulder, fingers in John’s hair. John, in turn, presses his face in the crook of Paul’s neck and they start to whisper to each other like they always have done, like it was before all of the problems in the late sixties. George sees Ringo smile and approach the bed as well, smiling when John raises his lower arm – his wounded shoulder being immobile – as a way of inviting him in the hug as well. They press their cheeks against each other, eyes teary, and the conversation between the three of them just flows.

George is silent through the whole ordeal. Ringo, of course, notices first and shoots him a questioning look when George continues to stand near the door with crossed arms; Paul just glances at him as if he knows, and George swallows thickly.

“I can’t believe you’re all here,” John says softly. He glances from Ringo to Paul, eyes lingering on George for half a second before averting his gaze, and he pulls at Paul’s mullet. “It’s like I’m dreamin’. Everything’s all fuzzy.”

“That’d be the morphine, lad,” Ringo remarks, and John winces when he chuckles.

Paul strokes John’s cheek affectionately. “George and I were actually about to leave again, fly back to England before Ringo stopped us and informed us that you’d woken up,” he informs John, smiling slightly. “We’d dropped everything to visit ye as soon as we heard.”

“Macca bawled his eyes out, he did,” Ringo grins, pushing slightly against Paul’s shoulder. “He was a right mess.”

Paul purses his lips in faux-annoyance, rolling his eyes. “I was  _worried,”_  he says as an excuse, and he drags a hand through his hair. “Besides, I wouldn’t want ye to die, Lennon,” he states earnestly. “I’d like y to last at least ten more years.”

“Ten more years of bein’ annoyed with each other? That’s fine by me.” John mutters, but he smiles when Paul gently knocks heads with him. “I can’t believe you were about to leave, though,” he then states. He only looks at Paul and it’s painfully clear that he’s ignoring George. Granted, he hasn’t said shit since they entered the godforsaken room, but it still stings and George angrily averts his gaze.

“ _We_  have families too, John,” Paul says softly, “My youngest is three now – and George’s boy is two. It’s hard to leave them behind for prolonged periods of time.”

“I know, I know-”

“But I suppose you’d know, now, right? With little Sean,” George can  _hear_  Paul grinning. “He’s adorable, love. Headstrong too.”

“I know,” John repeats, this time with a laugh in his voice. “He’s like me.”

“God save his future authority figures if he’s like you.” Ringo’s voice sounds awfully dry, but George knows he’s smiling. “They’ll get annihilated.”

They continue their chattering. There’s a soft knock on the door that goes unheard by the other three, and George pushes himself away from the wall to get it. Yoko stands in the hallway, looking a lot more rested than yesterday, and she nods at him silently. “Cynthia’s on the phone, asking for one of you,” she says softly, as to not disturb his friends’ little reunion. “Could you…?”

“Of course,” George answers gently, and he doesn’t glance behind him as he steps outside and closes the door to follow Yoko to the telephone.

Cynthia still sounds a little shaken. Her soft, melodic voice, even though distorted due to it being a transatlantic call, sounds anxiety-ridden, and George does his best to assure her that John’s awake and in stable condition.

 _“Oh, Geo, you’ve got no idea how happy that makes me,”_ she sighs, and George hums to notify her he’s still listening.  _“I’m hoping to send Julian over soon, but I don’t want him flying alone and I can’t take time off work. It’s quite tiring, really.”_

“We’ll figure somethin’ out, Cyn,” he answers her. “Paul and I were actually supposed to fly back today, but John woke up – I think I might return for a little while as soon as possible because of Dhani, but maybe when I fly back to New York again Jules can join me.”

_“He could? That’d be lovely, George, thank you!”_

“Ah, it’s no problem, Cyn, really-”

_“I’m serious, Geo, I couldn’t thank you enough. Julian was actually planning to see John again soon, and he was **so** upset when he heard the news over the radio-”_

“Oh, that poor lad-”

_“He’s alright now, but he’s hating it that he can’t fly over now. He’s got to finish his week at school, though, first…”_

“Hm, I’m sure.”

_“You know how it is, don’t you, George? You’ve always been so understanding. Jules will probably be less of a grump, then, when he hears you agree. Do you hear that, Jules? Uncle George also thinks you should finish your week!”_

“I didn’t  _say_ that necessarily-”

There’s some muffled speaking in the background.

_“Well, **he** thinks you should, too, Jules. Can you have some patience, please?”_

“I understand ‘im wantin’ to see his father, though, Cyn-”

 _“Oh, good Lord!”_ she chatters, ignoring the obviously annoyed Julian in the background. _“I’ve been keeping you on here for **far** too long, haven’t I? Well, George dear, have a safe flight home. Thank you again! Lots of love!”_

“Bye, love-”

The line goes dead. George blinks a couple of times, shaking his head with a smile, before hanging the receiver up again. He bites his lip in contemplation, then nods as he decides on what to do.

Finding his way back to the correct room proves difficult. Of course, every fuckin’ hallway has to look awfully alike, and he genuinely feels lost before he spots the fish tank filled with greenish water. Even though he feels bad for the goldfish inside, he also feels blessed by its dirty presence. At least now he knows where the fuck he is, and where the fuck he’s supposed to go.

He swiftly walks back to the private corridor, spotting Sean, Elton, and Yoko through the door of the guestroom. Yoko is rapidly going through papers and Sean and Elton are on the sofa, reading from the same book Ringo read from, and he smiles a little at the sight. The rest of the corridor is still empty, meaning that Ringo and Paul are probably still inside. Anxiety fills him up as he puts his hand on the door handle, but he wills it gone and pushes the door open.

Three heads shoot up and look in his direction as he walks in, Ringo and Paul with questioning gazes and John with a wary one. He silently walks over to the foot of John’s bed, running his fingers the metal of the footboard, and bites down on his lower lip.

“Cyn called about Julian,” he clarifies. “She doesn’t want him to fly alone and he needs to finish something at school first, so I’ll be flying back to England first thing tomorrow morning, spend a couple of days with Dhani and Liv, and then fly back here with Jules so you two can talk.”

John is awfully silent, licking his lips before he nods. Paul turns to John and smiles.

“Isn’t that great? You’ll finally see him again.”

“If he wants to see me,” John mutters. “We’ve been writing and calling, but I’ve abandoned him, didn’t I?”

“Be sure to apologize for that then,” Ringo says gently, “and you two might be able to put that… sort of behind you. I’m sure he’s relieved to not have lost you completely, John.”

“I’m still a dick.”

Ringo nods with a smile. “ _That_ is somethin’ that won’t change.”

John snorts and Paul reaches out to wipe John’s fringe away from his forehead with a fond expression on his face. Ringo smiles as he watches the ordeal, winking at John when the latter turns to shoot him half a grin, and pats the blankets gently.

And George feels distant. He’s standing closer than before now, close enough to make out the severity of the bags under John’s eyes, the bruising on his cheekbones from where he fell or was handled too roughly while being shoved into the police car because the ambulance would’ve been too slow. Close enough to see the individual wrappings of his visible bandages, the tremble of Paul’s hands as he touches John’s face, the glazing of tears in Ritchie’s eyes. Close enough to see the faux indifference at his presence on John’s face, close enough to let  _John_  see the faux nonchalance of  _George’s_  face.

They lock eyes.

Paul’s hand falters and falls away, Ritchie inhales and starts playing with his fingers. George forces his face in the expression he remembers John despising(mock-neutrality, slight scowl, daring yet disgusted glare) and he sees John’s temper flare up before his very eyes. He raises his eyebrows and John huffs.

Paul and Ringo glance at each other, the unease clear on their faces, and slowly push themselves away from the bed. “We’ll give you two a moment,” Ringo mutters, and Paul nods as he allows himself to be dragged away. George and John don’t stop their little staring contest as their friends whisper words of concern to each other, and when the door falls shut with a  _click_ the two of them are left alone.

The silence is almost physically painful. The only sound in the room is from the clock ticking away above the door and the soft beep of the heart monitor, and for George his own heartbeat in his ears. His eyes feel like they’re on fire. John stares at him, glasses askew on his nose, and George bites down on his lip.

“So,” John breaks the silence, voice icy, “are ye goin’ to say anything, or just stand there like a git?”

George swallows and averts his gaze.

“The latter, obviously,” the scowl in John’s voice is evident. “I get fuckin’ shot and you come here and you  _still_  say nothin’,  _fuckin’_  figures, innit?  _God,_ and to think we were actually on decent terms-”

“Well, we weren’t on decent terms, were we?”

John blinks, mouth opening and closing like some fish on dry land. He raises his good hand to his face and scratches at the small beard growing on his cheeks. “What do y-”

 _“Fuckin’ figures, innit?”_  George sneers, echoing John’s earlier choice of words and now looking him straight in the eyes. “John Lennon, stubbornly ignoring parts that don’t support the way ‘e wants to live his  _fuckin’_  life even if they’re there anyway. I fucked ye over with a book, remember? And take yer  _fuckin’_  glasses off, I can’t see y.”

John scowls but puts the frames in his lap. “I was  _hurt,_ Geo-”

“I would’ve fuckin’ apologized for that and explained meself if you’d answered yer bloody phone or answered yer bloody voicemail, Lennon, but Yoko had to be your messenger boy and tell me that you didn’t want to speak to me so I stopped callin’.” George snaps. “I was silent because I thought ye didn’t want me here and didn’t want to intrude on yer  _bloody_  reunion with Paul and Ritchie. _You_ didn’t acknowledge me at  _all-”_

 _“You_ didn’t acknowledge me…!”

“- so I fuckin’ figured I wasn’t welcome and didn’t try.” Tears are clouding his vision and he blinks them away stubbornly, but some end up on his cheeks anyway. Rude. “I bloody  _suspected_ as such, but Paul told me the fuckin’ news over the phone and he was cryin’ so much that I wanted to be there for ‘im, even if _you_ didn’t want me there.”

John swallows, wide-eyed, but stays silent.

“If you’d like to know,  _if you even care_ , I  _was_ worried. I’ve barely been able to sleep since I heard about you. I’m  _still_  fucking worried, because infections exist and I don’t want you to die for some fucked up reason.” He chews on his lip, tears actually steadily trailing down his cheeks now, and his stomach twists in guilt. “Fuck’s sake, Lennon, couldn’t you have been a little more careful with attending to your  _fucking_  fans?”

“Geo-”

“I don’t- I am so  _angry_ , alright? God I’m so fucking pissed at you and at myself especially and I just- I feel like fucking destroying this entire  _goddamn_  room but I just-”

“George, mate, come on-”

“I wanted to fuckin’ call you again that night, did you know that?” George pauses, and it’s as if his tears are made of acid, burning crevices in his skin on their way down his face. “I was gonna fucking- I was going to pick up that  _fucking_  phone and ring you and try to explain it again and I- oh my  _God-_ ” he inhales deeply, shakily, and chokes on a sob. “I am so  _sorry_ I fucked up so bad, John-”

John blinks at him from his position on the bed, a little paler than before, and sniffs. He lifts his hand and rubs at his cheek. “It’s not just your fault, Geo. We’re equally to blame.”

George produces a whimper. He wraps his arms around his upper body tightly, squeezing his eyes shut, desperate to keep the sobs inside.  _God_ , how pathetic. A fuckin’ breakdown in front of your friend who’s been shot - while you haven’t. What a laugh.

“Georgie- Georgie come on, come here,  _please.”_

He pushes himself forward, though each step feels so  _so_ heavy, and sits down on the chair Paul had been sitting on before leaving. John’s hand lands on the back of his neck and with a sharp tug of surprising strength George is leaning forward, his face pressed against John’s good shoulder, shoulders quivering as he cries. John is silent; his nose brushes the space behind George’s ear and John’s shaky sigh brushing his neck would have made George shiver had he not been too busy sobbing his eyes out.

John’s hand slides from George’s neck to the space between his shoulder blades, and the pressure makes him feel small in a way he doesn’t like but somehow still finds comfort in. John curls his fingers into a fist, bunching the material of George’s t-shirt in his hands. “Aren’t we a bunch of arseholes,” he whispers weakly, “of course you could’ve tried a little harder with reachin’ me, but I don’t blame you for giving up. Besides, I didn’t reach out either, did I?”

George says nothing.

“I’ve missed you three, y’know? Especially since Sean was born, I was mainly just home alone with ‘im while Yoko was off doing her thing - and I  _want_  her to do her thing, I’d support her through  _everything_  but it just got  _lonely_  and sometimes Macca visited in the first years but I told ‘im off and he took it the wrong way and just  _didn’t_  fuckin’ visit anymore and only called, and I’ve  _missed_  you three so much-” John stops, takes a deep breath, and laughs a watery laugh. “God, we’re a pathetic lot, aren’t we?”

“You’re the one who got shot,” George blubbers. John sighs.

“I  _know,_  ‘s one for the papers, innit?”

“It’s already in the papers.”

“Leave it to mister Harrison for the reality check, huh?”

George chuckles weakly and pulls back, wiping harshly at his face. John doesn’t seem to be particularly bothered by his own tears but slides his hand down George’s arm, eventually landing on his hand. George allows it, closing his eyes briefly.

“I’ve missed you too,” he then says softly. “I hated myself for it, but I’ve missed you a lot. Paul and Ritchie, too. Every single time I’m in a studio and people smoke and drink around me and I close my eyes for a little, I’m back in ’64. Brian and George are nagging at us, you and Paul are fuckin’ around and being annoying as per usual and Ringo is making sarcastic comments under his breath behind our backs. And for some weird reason, it makes me feel at ease and I  _don’t_ like it.”

John laughs, then winces. George squeezes his hand. “Careful,” he mutters, and he ignores the dry look John shoots him.

“I have that too,” John smiles and cocks his head. “I suppose it isn’t odd when at least two of us feel awfully nostalgic from time to time. I mean, it  _was_ fun-”

“Suffocating,” George mutters.

John pats his hand. “ _Suffocating_ , but fun. Anyway,” he then says, tone awfully casual, “you said you didn’t want me to die for, and I quote, ‘some fucked up reason’, and I’d like to know why.”

George pushes his wet eyes to form a glare. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

“And satisfaction brought it back,” John deadpans, and proceeds to blow a raspberry.

A laugh escapes George’s throat, and a warm feeling settles in his belly. “You have  _not_ changed at all, have ye?” he says, smiling. “Still a bloody arse.”

“I know!” John gasps – he then smiles and rolls his eyes. “But seriously, I want to know. I have a feeling it’ll flatter the fuck out of me. Come’n, mate, my self-esteem _craves_ some positivity-”

 _“That_  I don’t remember,” George murmurs, and John makes a spastic face. He hides his snort. “Fine. I don’t want ye to die yet because ye’re my brother, and I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if we’d been on bad terms and you’d fuckin’ died.”

“You didn’t want me to die, not because ye wanted me to live the rest of my life until I’m eighty and ugly but because you’d feel guilty for being a stubborn arse and I died before we could make amends?”

“I- no-” George pauses and purses his lips when John sends him a look, “you know what, fine. Yes. Exactly.”

“Aight, gear.” John nods violently, wincing slightly when it makes his injured shoulder move less than an inch. “Y’know, that’s exactly what I thought as well just before I hit the ground. It was like a million things ran through me head – mostly about Sean and Julian, but also about us arguing, and all the regrets I have.” He squints at the windows. The sun is starting to set, painting the room in a golden glow; John almost looks angelic with streaks of sunlight passing over his beaten face. “Life’s too short to just fight constantly, innit?”

“It is,” George murmurs. “Makes ye old, grey, and wrinkly.”

John grins, and George grins back. They might have changed, and they might have had their differences, but they’re still family.

And God forbid anyone who questions that… especially themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I sincerely hope you enjoyed this (slightly longer than the other two) chapter. Be sure to tell me what you think :)  
> This is not the complete ending yet, though it is a proper conclusion! Stay alert for a little, tiny, epilogue-ish follow up one of these days! I think it'll be a little more humorous than these "original" chapters(though I've been trying to include some humour, to not make it too angsty), but yeah! Be sure to keep an eye out for that.  
> Thank you so much for all of your comments and kudos. It makes me really happy to see people enjoy my work, and motivates me a lot to write more!  
> XX


	4. it's alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> et voilà! The epilogue - or the EPPY-logue, if you will ;) Completely unedited because I'm lazy and wanted to post, and also significantly fluffier than the other chapters. Because I needed it(who doesn't, honestly?)
> 
> ENJOY  
> \--  
> EDITED (but not beta'ed) 27-09-2019

_6 weeks later_

 

> **JOHN LENNON HEALTHY AGAIN?**
> 
> _NEW YORK_  Singer and ex-Beatle John Lennon has been seen leaving Mt Sinai West Hospital with his wife Yoko Ono and youngest son Sean early this morning, exiting through a side-entrance and immediately leaving by car. Mr Lennon walked, appearing surprisingly fit for a victim of gun violence. His spokesperson refused to give out any information, stating that it is “personal” and “a matter of privacy” how Mr Lennon is feeling at the moment. We at the editorial office do sincerely give Mr Lennon our best wishes and hope he will feel at his utmost best soon.

 

“Well,” Paul huffs from his position on the sofa, throwing the copy of  _The Times_ in Ringo’s unsuspecting face, “at least they were nice.”

Ringo splutters at the sudden face full of paper and peels the pages from his cheeks, swearing under his breath. He thumbs through the journal. “Oh look,” he mutters, sending Paul a glare. “There. They’ve got a cure for ye, Macca.”

“Hm?”

“It’s cream that magically makes ye less of an arse. Though I’m not sure if it’ll help-”

“Paulie’s arse-syndrome is terminal, it won’t help,” George pipes up from the carpet. He’s nicked one of John’s books, an older one on Marxism, and isn’t ashamed to say that it’s actually quite a pleasant read. He bats his eyelashes innocently when Paul gives him a mighty glare and barks out a laugh when Paul rips the newspaper from Ringo’s hands, swiftly rolls it up, and starts whacking George with it.

_“Oi! Tha’ hurts, you cunt! Can ye stop-”_

“They just want me for my body,” John laments, ignoring the yells from his best mates. He’s draped himself dramatically over a small loveseat, soft pillows supporting his still injured shoulder, and pops another grape into his scowling mouth. “You read that  _‘soon’_ , right? Does that sound sincere to you?”

Paul stops assaulting George for a moment to think and George immediately scoots out of reach, rubbing his fresh bruises with a sneer. He smiles, though, when Paul sticks out his tongue at him jokingly, a happy feeling spreading through his chest. The tense relations between the four of them have been somewhat resolved during the period of John’s hospital stay. They’ve spent an awful lot of time together – though they called their families whenever the opportunity arose – just talking, and laughing, and even singing. They’ve argued and made up, confessed old frustrations and apologized for things long passed. John’s talked and laughed with Julian, Julian absolutely  _adores_  Sean(who’s currently in some other part of New York with Yoko, Olivia, and Dhani, after it was claimed that the four of them needed some time alone now that John’s out of the hospital), and entire families flew across the pond to wish John the best of health.

_It’s healthy,_  George muses when Ringo fake gasps with a  _‘Eureka!’_  and flails his arms about, almost hitting Paul square in the face and making John cackle,  _it’s healthy to be clear about your feelings._ The past few weeks in New York – though Ringo, Paul, and George have all flown back on separate occasions at least  _twice –_ have been so amazing for their reconciliation that he’s basically ready to step back into the studio with the three of them, including Ringo’s silent judgement, John’s sneering _vocal_  judgement, and Paul’s overbearing bossiness.

The mischievous glint in Ringo’s eyes makes George grin fondly. “I’m sure they’re sincere, mate,” Ringo comments, and he sends John a wicked smile. “They want you back servin’ the masses and making scandals as soon as possible, I suppose, so they’re  _sincerely_ hoping-”

“What? They wanna make money off me?  _Fuckin’ bastards-”_

“They’re always makin’ money off us, John,” George sits up and grabs a handful of crackers from the little bowl on the coffee table. “If we’re on the front page, papers sell, don’t they?”

John merely scowls and eats another grape.

“Oh, the vexations of fame,” Paul murmurs. He smiles at no-one in particular and spreads his arms and legs wide, and basically ends up kicking Ringo in the nuts. He ignores the annoyed hiss. “It was our dream as little lads, wasn’t it? Takin’ over the world? An’ then we  _did.”_

“And hated every bloody moment,” George mutters darkly, but he laughs when John whoops out a  _yes._ He glances at his friends on the couch, shrugging when Paul pouts. “Look, I’m not saying that I didn’t enjoy some parts of fame-”

_“The birds,”_  John coughs in his fist.

“-but all of you know I didn’t enjoy it as much as you lot did.” He says, ignoring John’s little interruption.

Ringo smiles at him and hits Paul in the stomach when the latter opens his mouth to probably blurt out some kind of objection. “We do,” he says, voice gentle. George appreciates his little intervention, as it probably has prevented a row. “But we’re a lot better now, aren’t we?”

George grins at him, and Paul nods with an  _“aye”._ John, however, raises his good arm in the air and yells  _“still fucked up though!”_  at the ceiling.

“Yet we still love you,” Paul smiles, rising from his position on the sofa to walk towards his best mate, John laughing gleefully when Paul leans over him to carefully tickle his side. “Bloody miracle, innit?”

_“Stop,”_  John gasps, kicking his feet and pushing Paul’s fingers away from him, “Stop it, Macca! It fuckin’-” he squeals a very un-John like squeal and continues giggling, “it  _hurts_ you _arsewipe…!”_

Paul stops at that, immediately switching to  _concerned-mother-hen-Paul,_ and frowns as he reaches out to touch John’s shoulder and probably apologize. John, however, continues grinning wickedly and whips out a pillow, hitting him in the face with it. Paul promptly falls flat on his arse. He obviously hadn’t been expecting that, judging by his slow blinks.

John seems to wait, sitting up now and holding the pillow in front of him defensively, when Paul jumps up, snatches a pillow from a vacant loveseat, and attacks. They’re laughing, genuinely laughing while they have their little pillow fight as if they’re two birds in their late teens during a slumber party and not two middle-aged, ex-rocker dads trying to find an excuse to beat the shite out of each other with  _pillows,_ of all things.

Ringo slides down next to George and tangles their legs together, bumping his head against George’s shoulder affectionately. George smiles at him, feeling warm and fuzzy all over, and sighs, closing his eyes. The noise around him calms him down; the old Elvis-record playing in the background, Paul and John’s screeches of laughter, and Ringo’s deeply amused chuckling. It sounds like the home he’d forgotten but still missed.

“We’re alright now, aren’t we?” Ringo mutters lowly, just as Paul gets a particularly good hit and John topples onto the carpet with a shrill laugh. “This is good, right?”

George opens his eyes. Paul is straddling John’s thighs, obviously making sure not to hurt him too much but still viciously attacking him with the pillow, and John is crying with laughter. Ringo is looking at George, uncertainty in his pretty eyes, and George reaches out to ruffle Ringo’s neatly styled hair.

“Yeah,” he says with a grin when Ringo mutters a  _“hey”,_  pushing George’s hand away. He’s unable to hide the fond smile, though; George pokes him lovingly in the cheek. “I reckon we’re alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this quite a while ago. The idea just came to me one day while I was in a particularly melancholy mood, and I wondered what would have happened had John Lennon not succumbed to his injuries that night. I started reading a little about the Beatles on Quora mainly(a wonderful source of information if you haven't got access to or the time for reading/watching biographies and certain interviews), and read that George and John weren't exactly on the best of terms when John was forcefully taken from his friends and family. They'd had arguments over George's book, "I, Me, Mine", in which George barely mentioned John: John took that lack of mentions personally and felt insulted and betrayed. After George had gotten the call about John's death, he didn't cry and actually fell back asleep, and it took a while to sink. He said he didn't really know how to react, though he later expressed to be upset about the way John had been taken(I think the word he used was "unwillingly"). Paul, of course, had the infamous word-choice of "drag, isn't it?", being at loss for words and (I think) later breaking down in the privacy of his home. I couldn't find much about Ringo's reaction, but I do know that he was really upset(which is more than normal).  
> The boys were not on very good terms before John's death(though that severely varied from time to time! I've dramatized it a bit for the fic's sake) and were, sometimes, not on very good terms after John's death either. I seriously wondered(and still wonder) how shit would've gone down had John lived, as John (allegedly) was planning to return to England after his album had come out and to probably reconcile a bit with his old friends, maybe even play together for a little.  
> (I've also read that Yoko actually moved her boyfriend into the Dakota mere days after John's death, and even though I personally wouldn't have done that had my husband passed, I didn't want to paint her in a particularly bad light. It's also the reason why she wasn't very prominent in the fic)  
> ANYROAD, I'm ranting. I sincerely hope you enjoyed this fic(it appears some really did! That makes me happy) as much as I enjoyed writing it :)  
> Lots of love,  
> Miffy  
> xx


	5. it's alright.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're Fine.  
> Or, John can't smoke and drags everyone along with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not done yet, lovies!!!

“I want you lot to stop smoking.”

Paul, already halfway out of the door with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, stops dead in his tracks. “Wha’?”

John scowls and sits up a little more, albeit somewhat stiffly. The hospital gown - one of those particularly awful ones, all light blue with little pink flowers dotted haphazardly across the scratchy fabric - stretches around his bony shoulders, and George doesn’t doubt that it’s rather uncomfortable. His shoulder wound was apparently a bit irritated this morning and the nurse on duty had outright refused to help him slip into his ‘normal’ clothing, deeming the soft fabric of his usual sweater the culprit of the angry redness of his injury. John’s been in a right state all bloody morning as a result, fidgeting and scowling, snapping at everybody, and it’s _so_ annoying that George almost wants to defy the law of the nurse and just give John his own clothes. Sadly, nurse Amanda is, in all of her five-foot-two-glory, intimidating as _fuck_ and has threatened to snap him in half multiple times every single time he tried to intervene. 

He doesn’t doubt her. 

“I want you to stop smoking,” John repeats, a little louder now, and Ringo protectively clutches his pack of Camels closer to his chest. John’s eyes narrow behind his glasses when he spots the action and his face darkens significantly; Ringo audibly gulps. “It _smells.”_

“I- you- _what?”_ Paul stutters, ciggie bouncing between his teeth. He locks eyes with George, looking confused yet as beautiful as he always does _(fuckin’ git),_ before snapping his gaze back to John. _“What?”_ he asks once more, when John’s narrowed glare reveals nothing to him.

“I want you to stop smoking, ‘cos it smells,” John snaps, visibly losing his patience after having to repeat himself for a second time. His good hand curls into a tight, white-knuckled fist, sheets bunching up between his fingers. George resists the urge to place his own hand over John’s; it’ll probably do a lot more harm than good. “I don’t like it.”

George glances at Ringo and Paul, before looking back to John. “John, love,” he begins slowly, carefully, _“you_ smoke.”

He manages not to flinch at the earth-shattering glare John sends him, keeping his face impassive while staring his friend down. John’s still scowling, sunken in cheeks having turned red with anger. “Not anymore,” he answers. His voice sounds strained, as if he’s trying to keep himself from yelling and spilling all of his emotions out in front of him. “I can’t,” he further clarifies, “my lung, y’know.”

They stare at him silently and dumbly for a little while. John, who is visibly growing more and more frustrated at their stunned, stupid silence, turns his glare at the ceiling and starts to fidget with the fabric of his gown. “My lung, lads, _my lung._ I got fuckin’ _shot,_ remember? Bloody _bastard_ bullet punctured my _bloody_ lung and the fuckin’ doctors won’t let me even fuckin’ _touch_ a cigarette ‘cos they’re scared the wound may not heal, okay!?” 

Something clicks, but George is still silently blinking at him, brain not entirely cooperating as it should. It’s Ringo who speaks first.

“Ah,” he rumbles, and when George turns his head he sees the drummer is smiling lovingly at their ill-tempered Johnny. “Ye want some solidarity, then?”

John’s scowl deepens. “Glad to see at least _one_ o’ youse’s catchin’ on.”

“‘m _sorry,_ Johnny,” Paul mumbles, and he looks awfully apologetic. He’s taken the cigarette out of his mouth and is tapping it anxiously against his hip, has replaced it with the thumb of his free hand. “Didn’t realise. It’s shit to quit when the people around ye continue to smoke.” At the questioning gazes from the others, he shrugs, pausing briefly from gnawing on his nail. “Tried a while back. Gave up after less than a week.”

John visibly relaxes, leaning back against his pillows and tapping the fingers of his good hand along his sling. “Yeah,” he says gruffly. “It’s shit.”

“‘s that the reason why you’ve been so bloody antsy and annoying this mornin’, then?” George asks, not even bothering to hide his amusement. He snickers at the childish glare John shoots at him. “Withdrawals kickin’ in?”

“They ‘ad me on nicotine for a while, y’know, while my condition was the worst,” John grumbles, almost pouting at this point. He plucks at the white fabric of the sling, twisting some loose threads between his slender fingers. “They made the brilliant decision to lower the amount, the bastards. They said- they said, _“it’s better for you, Mr. Lennon, to stop smoking entirely”,”_ he’s raised his voice to an annoying pitch, perfect American lilt as he imitates the dedicated staff tending to him. He huffs. _“Bullshit.”_

George leans back in his chair, biting his lip. “Smoking _is_ bad, y’know,” he mutters, “premature aging ‘n all that. Constant dependency.” He purses his lips, recalling the times he’s been out of breath while running around with _any kid_ (though it’s been Sean _a lot_ these days) hot on his heels. “Bad lungs. Stopping, though, is fuckin’ shit.”

John groans, tilting his head up to the ceiling and squeezing his eyes shut; he’s obviously hiding a wince, as he’s complained about stretching hurting like a bitch before. “Death take me now.”

Ringo shuffles a little closer, patting the top of John’s had fondly. “Now now,” he murmurs with a soft smile, “fate didn’t just spare ye after yer perky little arse got attacked for you to just ask death to take you away, y’know. We’d like ye here a little longer.”

“Yeah!” Paul flits towards the bed, grinning and bouncing like a nervous child. “I want ye to annoy me for _years_ to come!”

_“Hm.”_

“What’s it ye want then,” Paul then says sweetly, batting his absurdly long eyelashes as he leans in a little closer. “I’ll quit for ye. Is that what you wanted t’hear, babe?”

“Yes,” John grumbles. His pout disappears when Paul hip-bumps Ringo out of the way and leans in close enough to press a firm kiss against John’s cheek, dangerously near the corner of his mouth, and the blush - that’d faded slightly after his anger dissipated - came back in full force. “Alright, Paulie down- Ritchie?”

Ringo looks up at the ceiling, and sighs. _“Fine._ But I’m gonna finish me pack first.”

“Better start smokin’ that soon then son, because I don’t want to smell _any_ cigarettes startin’ tonight.” John says sharply, rolling his eyes at Ringo’s mock-salute before directing his glare at George. “Well?”

George smiles gently. Though John’s rather childish _“I want it now”-_ attitude should annoy him, it doesn’t do much more than spread a warm feeling of affection in his chest. He could’ve _lost_ this, forever, and John’s snarky wit could’ve been no more than a vague memory of the past. It’s still here, it’s still strong, and it isn’t going anywhere. 

_Thank God._

“Alright,” he says, and he nods. “I’m in as well, love. I’m out of cigs anyway, hadn’t bought new ones yet.”

“Brilliant,” John’s pouty demeanour clears entirely, and he shoots them all a small grin. “Brilliant. Then I’m not alone.”

Paul rolls his eyes and yanks Ringo upright by the armpit, sticking his cigarette back in his mouth and dragging him heatedly towards the door. “Fuckin’ hate this already - gotta ask if one of the nurses smokes. Jesus Christ.”

“Alright,” Ringo giggles, stumbling along with a broad grin and a little wave, “we’re off to finish whatever we’ve got left. See you two in an hour or so?”

“Good luck,” George cooes, ignoring John’s snort tactfully, and the door slams shut behind their ex-bandmates. 

It’s silent between the two of them for a little while, George trying to pick the dirt out from under his nails and John probably trying to relax and not ask for another small dose of morphine, when John speaks up.

“Well,” he mutters, and he looks an adorable mix of pleased and confused as George glances at him through his lashes, “that went a lot easier than I’d anticipated.”

“Plannin’ for a whole fuckin’ temper tantrum, were you?” George asks. “With yellin’ and screamin’?”

“And tears,” John adds. “I was gonna guilt-trip the fuck outta all of ye. Would’ve been worthy of Broadway, son.”

George snickers and John turns his head to grin at him, bright and happy and _alive,_ and it kind of feels like he’s been punched in the gut but it also kind of doesn’t. Because he’s still here, and they’re okay, and everything is fuckin’ _fine._ So fine that Paul’s still smiling with twinkling eyes and Ringo’s genuinely happy and leaving the bottle alone and George’s enjoying hugs more than ever and not feeling apathetic to the world and John’s _alive_ and _breathing_ and being as annoying and demanding as ever, and they’re _fine._

 _‘Yeah’,_ he thinks, when John pokes him in the nose and sneers something about how he looks like a dumb sheep with that smile, _‘we’re more than fine.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, it's been a while - but i felt like i really couldn't post this (S H O R T) oneshot as a separate oneshot. it just wouldn't work, especially since you need so much context for it, so here it is- an extra, very short chapter. an extension of the eppy-logue pre eppylogue, if you will. 
> 
> There's something toasty comin' up soon, so keep your eyes open for that!!  
> i sincerely hope you enjoyed :) comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, and you can always look me up on my tumblr (blobfishmiffy, i'm too lazy to inbed a link here) for a some smalltalk(which i'm bad at but i am Willing)!!  
> xxxx


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